Missing Scenes
by jkwasher
Summary: Just as the title implies, scenes missing from either the series or the books, beginning with an end for Population 25, then for Unquiet Mind. These will NOT be in chronological order (obviously.)
1. Chapter 1

**Missing Scenes**

**Missing Scenes will be just that: scenes from television *or* books which we are not privy to in any manner. These could go on for numerous chapters, especially as the season(s)—I use the plural here, because *hopefully* that is correct, play out...**

**What **_**happened**_** after Vic drove back up the canyon, not knowing if Walt was dead or alive in S3E7 "Population 25?" For example, what **_**happened **_**in S2E1 "Unquiet Mind" as and after Walt was rescued from the mountain? **

**I don't want to spoil the books, for you if you haven't read them, so be warned, a few *spoilers* come next: From the books, might be some infill how Walt and Vic's relationship went from 0-100 in five minutes in KGU, and then backpedaled to idle until a couple of books down the road… Or, what the **_**heck **_**happens between Walt and Vic after Vic gives Walt Mouth-to-Mouth resuscitation in DWC? That first meeting afterwards must have been at least **_**awkward**_**, to say the least. I also want to address that Walt is playing the piano at the end of DWC, but he has not as of end of S3, so…**

**If you haven't read the books, the series does *not* follow the progress of the books other than having the contemporary western sheriff solving mysteries with most of the main characters. Bits and pieces of the books have been borrowed to create the episodic show (brilliantly, I believe) but only one of the plotlines more or less coincides with that of the books. Of course I don't own anything, lowly fanfic writer, etc etc.**

**I've written several missing scenes to episodes thus far…but need a name for the grouping. If you think of something catchier than "Missing Scenes," please PM me. Also, please feel free to PM anything you don't want to share in review, such as critique, ideas, comments, welcome! I shoulder grains of salt the size of boulders.**

**Please note: These are NOT published here in any chronological order!**

**Missing Scenes – Chapter One**

—**One End for "Population 25"**

**(Written after S3E7 "Population 25" and Before S3E8 "Harvest")**

**(BEFORE "The Hug," just in case you wondered why I took this in another direction.) I couldn't believe any hospital wouldn't observe a patient with a moderate-severe concussion at **_**least**_** overnight. This at least answers the question as to where Branch went to during all the fun at Chance's compound…**

**I have posted "Epiphanies," a separate look into the heads of Walt and Vic in the hospital examining room, during The Hug, beginning of S3E8. Prior to that, the show flashed back to a brief review of the end of S3E7, "Population 25," but they never really **_**ended**_** it. We just see Vic headed back up the canyon in the Bronco. I also stole a line from the Fort Atlantic song "Up from the Ground" used at the end of S3E7, for Vic feeling compelled to return to Chance's compound…**

**I know other people have written this sequence. Apologies if I've stepped on anything. I wrote this the day after "Population 25," when it was fresh in my mind. This is one way it **_**might**_** have ended, but not with only 42 minutes…**

**VIC**

The Bronco's headlights sliced into the night, terminating into the compound's giant floods in the distance. A protective vise around her heart would not let her think the worst… As the tires scrunched along and gravel flew at her speed, Vic could see a shadowy tableau in the distance, one figure standing over another in front of Chance's compound.

It was a tall figure, stooping. Her heart gave a little leap, only to see Branch Connelly turn his head toward her in surprise. The leap stilled, but the figure on the ground—it did not move, but it did not have a brown coat, and no hat lay nearby. Her heart leapt a little more. She fought the urge to go over and put a helmet on the man on the ground, dead or not, and kick him around a bit, or maybe _more _than a bit, but it was a brief inclination. Her spinning head decided in favor of _not._ The Bronco gave up a small screech and threw up more gravel as she braked to zero, cut the ignition, and she piled out a little wobbly, but mostly intact.

Branch stood, waved and signaled—toward the road. She could hear the faintest shrill sibilance of sirens echoing distantly from down the canyon. He walked back down the road, no doubt to greet backup so the Feds and police together could process the crime scene. A frisson of fear—would Walt be charged with shooting Chance? No. She didn't want to be one, but there were at least three acknowledged victims that she knew of—Sean, herself and the State Trooper in the body bag. No, it wouldn't be Walt. Okay, almost, but _not_ okay. Where was _Walt_?

"Hey," came a familiar deep sandpapery voice from the dappled shadows beyond the floods.

When she turned her head and squinted past the glare, she could finally see Walt sitting on a railroad tie partially obscured by a stand of trees, head down, his Colt still in his right hand, left arm hanging. She fought the urge to collapse into his arms even as alarms coursed through her. If habitual stoic Walt _showed_ in body language that he was hurt…she jogged around to the hatch and yanked out the small pack containing medical and survival supplies, and trotted back over to him, her head throbbing with every step. He lifted his head, looking more than a little dazed from where he sat staring at her. She wondered if he thought she was a mirage because she had come back. She sure wouldn't have expected her to return after release.

Her head pounded louder than her heart, and she fought the urge to be sick again, for a dark streaky stain marred the outer edge of the dark brown suede of his jacket just below his shoulder.

She inhaled, gathering around her what little bravado she could muster. She defaulted into shock talk to take that look out of his eyes. "Look at you, I fucking leave for barely ten minutes and already you're in a shit-storm of trouble."

He managed a sour smile, but it was better than that dazed look. "It's just a scratch. At least Branch called the Feds for backup; we won't have to stay long once we've briefed them. It's _their_ jurisdiction, after all. I think Branch and I are even, now; he called the Feds when he sneaked in and saw what was going down here. Hopefully the Feds will take over and hunt down the rest of Chance's _family_." He blinked, peering behind her, as though suddenly aware of her solitary appearance. "Where're Gorski—and Sean? Gorski should have had you and Sean halfway down the canyon toward the hospital by now."

Sean. She had left him alone and unprotected in the middle of a dark road, wedged in the backseat of a crappy survivalist beater car. He was not a cop, had been injured and was in as much hurt as she. He should not be driving any more than she should have, but she _had_ driven back in Walt's unit and had not thought twice about it.

In her mind, it had been simple, she had heard the call: _the call was Walt, and she had no_ _choice_. In leaving the compound, she had left a piece of herself behind, after Walt had openly risked his life to save hers. In vivid relief she saw him staring at her as she left, when he should have been focused on the crazy guy on the porch with a gun who he had challenged to a duel—a _duel _of all things! Who did that, nowadays? Well obviously Walt did, enacting a romantic artifact of a bygone era. From what she had seen, Chance Gilbert had embraced the notion of doing the same as a noble way out. It had been obvious to her that Walt understood Chance in ways she did not.

As they left, her fears had tried to break her, had eventually made her cry in front of Gorski, yet despite her fears, she had returned—desperately trying to suppress the worst. She had already lost her rational self once earlier that day thinking Walt was dead; if he had been dead now, she suspected it would have been just too much to bear. She had no idea how she would have functioned in that eventuality. Maybe just locked down, or gone bat-shirt crazy screaming like when the body bag had been thrown down; it was best not to examine that too closely, it would most likely just make her fucking cry again.

"Gorski walked out—just after we reached your truck. He said goodbye. I think he got everything he told me he wanted, for me to hurt as much as he had been, and to lose everything I loved." His eyes met hers briefly, intense, in question. She tried to shutter hers down, hide the trembling of her hands.

"Now, let's see what you've fucking gone and done," she demanded quickly without elaborating further. He quickly holstered his piece, and she carefully helped him shrug his arm out of his jacket. The entire left sleeve of the shirt was saturated with blood, but as she peeled his shirt away, saw her relief that though bleeding, it probably could be repaired with a reasonable number of sutures if she kept pressure on it now. _Damn_, her hands weren't trembling now, they were _shaking._ Putting pressure on the wound kept them from continuing to shake.

"You came back for _me_." He stated the obvious and maybe with some disbelief. It had occurred to her when she first saw him that he might be a little on the shocky side, too. His words only verified that.

She laughed—it bordered on hysteria; she was still trying to master her pounding head and roiling belly which had not improved with the sight or smell of the blood before her. "Well, you should appreciate _this:_ I know I don't read as much as you do, but I think it's a twist on fucking Shakespeare or something—if you get hurt, Walt, _I_ bleed."

With that, she managed to render him speechless. She looked down, just maintaining pressure on his wound, the only thing keeping her hands steady. It might be able to be tied off until medical care arrived. She was suddenly yanked from her concentration through the fog of her head, to hear the wail of sirens much closer, hopefully a massive task force making its laborious way up the canyon, but if possible, it magnified her headache. She finally tied up his wound as best possible with a bandanna in the kit, and turned away, losing anything possibly left in her stomach from the previous bouts in Chance's cellar. He knelt and moved to hold her hair with his good hand.

When she had finished, he issued a gruff ultimatum. "When they get here, you go straight to the hospital."

She came right back at him. "I'll go when you do. This isn't Ten Sleep, Walt. I won't leave you again." In her mind, that was that.

And finally, _finally, _there was Branch, hoofing it back up the drive, ushering a long procession of flashing lights, agents armed in Kevlar and substantially impressive but unnecessary weaponry. They had missed the fight; this was no Ruby Ridge, just mop-up, investigation, and documentation. Hopefully some of their force had high-tailed it after the motley crew of acolytes who had tortured Sean and her, and worse, had stood by _enjoying_ it earlier that day.

Walt struggled to a stand, and she stood as well. All present representatives of the Absaroka Sheriff's department were currently walking wounded; poor Branch, he was not much better healed than either Walt or she—still not completely recovered in strength and stamina from his gunshot wounds. He should have taken Walt's unit down to the road. He was huffing, his hands on his knees to get his breath back.

A man evidently in charge came up, flashed his badge, and pumped Walt's good hand. "Hendars, FBI. Impressive, Longmire, if you've secured this compound single-handed."

Ever-modest, Walt said, "I had some help, but his people escaped." It did not escape _her_ that his help securing it was a solitary loose-cannon stalker, and that he said nothing about fighting a duel at great personal cost to free his undersheriff and her husband.

"On our way up, we intercepted about twenty coming down the mountain, and found a man identifying himself as your deputy's husband —seemed to be in shock, and in rough shape."

"So is my deputy, maybe someone could look at her—" she caught him with a fierce eye "—um, at _both_ of us, in a bit," he quickly amended. "Let me brief you on the situation."

The scene became full of lights of all sorts, men and women moving in small groups, even as Walt gave Hendars a surprisingly complete precis of the situation. At least as far as she could follow it; she suddenly felt light-headed and sat down again abruptly, even while Walt was gesturing to Agent Hendars with his good arm. She caught the _words census agent in the freezer_—so as _well_ as the H.P. trooper in the body bag? _Definitely_ Federal jurisdiction, then.

Walt suddenly looked as tired and hurting as she felt, and as though he should sit, too. The teams moved off to investigate. He still had not said anything personal to her, but turned back to where she sat, trying not to huddle miserably in the wake of martial superiority and manpower fanning through the compound.

"I won't leave you either, Vic," he said in that soft gravel voice.

She opened her mouth, but there was no more time for words. Another Fed, who looked like another in-charge guy came up and took Walt away, no doubt for a more comprehensive statement.

One of the ambulances finally sped off with a gaggle of officers in it—taking the high value survivalist for medical attention or the morgue; she did not much care which. She was pretty sure he would haunt her nightmares for months or even years. She could see Walt over at another ambulance, getting a female EMT having a more professional look at her improvised pad. She could tell he was not as unaffected as he appeared. Maybe they could both visit the same therapist, or both attend the same appointments. No, probably not. She would not wish either her or Walt's nightmares on an innocent therapist, much less an ambush from both officers at the same time.

After what seemed like a long while, Walt's boots came crunching along the gravel and he crouched beside her, the female medic who had attended him standing a respectful dozen feet away.

"This is Emily. She's an EMT, wants to ask you a few questions, if you feel up to it. Are you ready to get going? They'll come find us at the hospital when they need us."

"_Us_." She said it emphatically.

He nodded, placing his large hand over her knee and briefly patting it, before releasing her. "It'll be all right now, Vic. I'm going to let Branch take lead for now, until you and I are back up to it. Let's get out of here."

"No ambulance?" she pleaded.

He hesitated. "Neither of us should drive."

He was right. He gave her a searching look, before asking softly, "How about I ride in it with you?" His face transformed with a rare boyish grin. "I can be your bodyguard and protect you from the mean old EMTs and their needles."

"Fuck that," she said, and stood up gingerly.

It was a long ride, and they made her lie down, but he did keep the needles away and, to her great surprise, held her hand the whole way into town. She closed her eyes, concentrated on not throwing up again, and with his large, rough hand relentlessly wrapped around hers, she remained reassured that he was really, _really_ still alive. It kept back the visions of the body bag hurtling down toward her and Sean…

She must have zoned out, because she began having something colorful and bizarre, sort-of dreams. _I'm all he has_, _sometimes you find out you married the wrong person_, echoed in her head, along with the satisfying crunch of hitting Towson after admitting he was going to let Walt freeze, and the endorphin-high of the frantic run to stop Eli from murdering Walt…It had all been there, right in front of her face. _Walt. _It was Walt then and Walt now, but what about the _future?_

She did not insist he stay in her room. She did not _ask. _Dr. Weston himself came into the room they had assigned to her and sutured the injured sheriff, because Walt adamantly refused to leave her alone to go to an exam room. He simply told the orderly they didn't need a separate room for him, and that he would stay planted in the recliner. He also dutifully promised to remain quiet. That was more than they usually got from him during a hospitalization. Actually, _staying_ was more than they usually got from him.

"Maybe, just for tonight," she finally relented, because she was hurting and tired and really did _not_ want to be alone, although she fought the urge to hang on him any more than she had already. Even so, Sean might be by any moment, and the Great Gossips of Durant were probably already broadcasting that the sheriff was staying in the same room as the deputy. It was inevitable.

"I saw Sean," he said cautiously, obviously edging back into civilization mode, and almost eerily like he was reading her thoughts.

"Good," she said, but not relieved, just guilty. "Did he make it back okay?"

"One of the ambulances stopped on the way up and brought him back. Hendars said he was still in the back seat of that Granada when they found him."

Her guilt magnified. She had probably compounded his shock by going back, leaving _him_ alone, and even more than that, _why _she had gone_. _"Did he say anything?" He had not tried to contact her…

"Sean said, 'stay with her, she's had a rough time.'"

She closed her eyes in relief. If Sean had given permission…

His hand squeezed hers when her eyes closed. "You shouldn't sleep, Vic, but I'll be here. We can talk if you want."

What a Longmire Concession, to actually _offer _to talk! He looked adorably out of place in a hospital gown top open down the back and tied at the neck, and jeans and boots. His shirt had been unsalvageable. His arm was in a sling, and he looked vague, haunted, and in some pain. She suspected if she weren't there, he would be at the cabin slugging down a Rainier on top of pain meds, and possibly even sleeping.

"So did Chance kill your wife? Or Miller Beck?" she asked, great small talk, she thought. Talking shop. Not, 'Do you love me, too?' but, 'Did the survivalist break that case?'

"He said not," and shook his head slowly as though to clear it. "I think I believe him."

She didn't say anything.

"We each thought the other would be dead, so there was no reason for him to lie."

She winced at the word 'dead.' Her head was so_ fuzzy—_she couldn't think —"Well, if _he_ didn't, who _did_?"

That _was_ the question, wasn't it?

"I wish…you were over here," she said plaintively. They wouldn't give her the good stuff until they had observed her longer, and she _hurt_.

He hesitated at the blatant words. "I do too, but we're in a semi-public place, you're married and I really don't want to do that to Sean…"

She finished, "on top of everything else I did."

His eyebrows rose. "What did _you_ do?"

"On top of going bat-shit over the body bag with the HP trooper in it, you mean? I thought it was _you_."

"Oh."

"On top of leaving him alone and unprotected in that decrepit car after Gorski abandoned us and…

"And…?"

"…On top of abandoning _him_ to come back to _you_?"

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

There was a silence. She attempted to fill it. Longmire conversations only went so far, after all.

"So when your arm is better, you heading down to Denver to investigate the Darius connection?"

"Yep."

"I want to go, too, Walt." She chanced a look at him. He looked grim.

"You almost got killed involved in this case already Vic. Let me handle it."

"I don't want to be alone again for a long time, Walt, especially if Seaon goes out of town again. _Please_."

"We'll see." She half-smiled, kind of hazy inside. That had been one of her ploys when she was growing up, when her mother wouldn't give her permission for something immediately. With her mother, with sufficient wheedling, 'we'll see' usually became 'yes.' However, his comment, although not an affirmative, was at least better than Omar's translation of a 'Longmire yes' which broken down translated as: 'no comment.'

Walt managed to nudge the recliner closer to her bed, and once more took her hand in his. With that, she gave a little sigh and was content despite the pain. Although their conversation was sporadic, it reminded her of the time he had been in the hospital unconscious after his pursuit of the convicts up the mountain behind Ten Sleep.

Ruby brought a bunch of post-its and flowers to the hospital. With Ruby's help, she was able to delegate most of the post-its to the Ferg, a few to Branch, and deflect most of them from Walt. She was afraid to ask where he had gone off to that morning after Ruby spelled him. Ruby had said nothing when she arrived, his hand still clasped to hers.

He hadn't returned, and his absence was more noticeable as every hour went by. Although they finally said she could sleep, she could not. She just saw Chance's face in her head every time her eyes closed, followed by the plummeting body bag. She cussed at herself for her weakness. Walt would come back.

Branch even showed up later that morning. "Took guts to return to Chance's place," he said, twisting his hat in his hands.

"Took guts for you to stick it out, find him, and call backup. Thanks, Branch. Thanks for getting him some help." She did not elaborate which _him._ She also did not mention her neighbor's report to Ruby that Branch had been seen snooping at her house.

Branch shuffled awkwardly under the praise. "Anytime."

Cady showed up next, one of what in her hurt was beginning to feel like an endless stream and the fog and exhaustion setting in told her to quit the chat. Soon.

"Branch told me what you did for dad, Vic."

What _had_ she done? What did they _think _she had done? How much did Branch know? All she had done was drive back to get him—or retrieve his body. That was all.

Cady went on, "Going back for him." She paused. "And I saw Dad holding your hand in here last night." Accusation or acceptance? Not sure, yet, and the fog wouldn't let her make that determination, but there was no question of _which_ 'him.' Well, at least _that_ was more to the point!

"Oh, that."

"Yes, _that."_

"I didn't want to be alone. He was kind about it."

Cady nodded, all sympathy, but she could feel the underlying current, which was Cady broadcasting a fervent plea, '_don't hurt him.' _When had she turned into a mind-reader? Was that a side-effect of concussion she had never heard of, before? She hoped she could accommodate Cady's request.

Henry called her on the hospital phone, which made her grimace. Her own phone was presumably lost somewhere in Chance's compound, or possibly evidence with the Feds, and with the ankle bracelet, Henry couldn't very well travel to the hospital. He was, though, surprisingly informative.

"Walt is the proverbial bear with the sore head—or arm —today. Experiences like that tend to linger in the back of your mind, and you and Walt are probably too close to it to talk it out together, yet. If you ever need to talk, Vic, Cady seems to think I am an adequate pair of ears."

She smiled into the hospital phone and thanked him. She meant it. Walt had told her once that Henry had more combat history and endured more PTSD than he ever had as an M.P. investigator.

The only two who did not visit her during the day were Walt and Sean. She had found out Sean had been treated and released. She wasn't surprised he didn't answer his cell, because of course it was presumably with hers back at the compound or somewhere in an evidence bag.

And, of absent visitors, well, of course Gorski was least prominent, but he certainly filled out her triumvirate of men–all three currently ghosts-of her past, present and possible might-be guys.

Sean showed up about 7 pm. He looked terrible. He should have stayed a ghost.

"How do you feel?" he asked her. She had not asked him.

"Better," she answered, truthful about her physical condition, but she would not admit the 'terrible or worse' feelings about what she had done to _him_.

"I went straight to the main office in Sheridan, today," he said. "I requested and accepted a transfer and promotion to Australia, and brought back some papers to sign. You might want to have an attorney look at them."

That didn't make sense, but frowning made her head ache. "Why would I need to sign Newett papers?"

"My friend in legal drew them up. Divorce. It's a simple split. I already arranged to have my stuff in a storage locker here in Durant. Half of my 401k and you give me half of yours. I think you net about 30 grand. It's quick and we're out."

"Divorce." It seemed too quick, too final to be real, when the day before, neither of them thought they would even be alive to tell about it.

"After that Arizona photo and how you've acted the last couple of days, you dispute my reason for it?"

It must have been the shock. It must have been the truth. She pressed her lips together and stared at him. Walt had used the same technique on her a time or two.

"That's _if_ you want out, I'm giving it to you. If not, we leave for Australia on Friday."

Friday! What an ultimatum! But Saturday she had an appointment with Henry to learn to sit a western saddle... Walt had foisted her onto his friend, saying Henry was the better rider and teacher. She did not understand why; Walt was infinitely patient with animals and children...and witnesses, and _usually_ with suspects. But—to leave the country—the department—and _Walt…_

"Oh."

Sean nodded, all relief that his mission for the day was complete. "It's in your court now,Victoria. I'm going home to sleep. Oh, I got a new cell phone. Same number. I didn't buy you one. Thought maybe the department could buy you your next one; they certainly get enough use out of yours."

"Oh."

And then he was gone. Walt must have been watching for him to leave, because he filled her doorway about two minutes later.

"Hey," he said gruffly.

"Hey, yourself," she said. He didn't look as bad as he might, but he did look exhausted. He had obviously taken a shower and was wearing clean clothes and a different jacket. No doubt the other was over at the tack shop being stitched. She wondered idly how he'd handled covering the wound while showering. Thoughts about him showering brought other thoughts she should not yet be thinking.

"Getting it cleaned as well as mended?" she asked, nodding at the less distinctive, lighter-weight-model jacket. The old one didn't look good with blood on it. She had occasion to know.

"Yep, cleaned and it will be good as new after they sew up the slit in the sleeve," he acknowledged with a rueful grin. "How was your day?"

Her day.

"Ruby, Branch, Cady, Sean. Henry called."

"I saw Sean leaving. Thought it was the better part of valor, etc., not to come in just then."

She nudged the envelope to him. "He's leaving Friday for Australia, and," she took a heavy breath and lifted the manila envelope, "I think I need an attorney to review this. Does Cady do that?"

He eyed it as though it was a snake. "_He's _leaving for Australia?" he repeated, and then, "Do what?"

"Look at divorce settlements?" She paused, trying to give him a minute to catch up. "I thought she might have, before." At his presumably stunned silence, she went on awkwardly, "Or just for a recommendation, you know, a name of someone who could look at them. I don't want to make her uncomfortable."

Another beat.

"Did you mean it?" he finally asked.

"Mean…what?"

"That – that you bleed if I'm hurt."

"Oh, that. Yeah, I stole it, though. I read it somewhere. It just said it all."

"I don't deserve you, Vic. You could have anyone…"

"Christ, Walt, I had Gorski and I've had Sean, and look at what a muck I made of it all! "

"I don't want to _be_ another mistake, Vic, if you're getting a divorce, I just want to take our time and find out if there _is _an _us._"

He wasn't dealing in small change; that threw her. Most men would be delighted to have a non-committed relationship. Most men were not Walt.

She finally said, "I want to find out, too," and tentatively ventured at his continued silence, "So, I never knew, what happened to…Chance?" She could barely whisper the name. She saw him notice that. And so much for small talk, back to shop talk to keep the conversation going.

"He didn't make it. There's an ongoing investigation, but I should be clear in it. All the charges against the family will come later."

She merely nodded, but noticed him favoring his arm.

"How's it doing?"

"It's all right. It's gonna be okay."

"Walt, you _fought a fucking duel for me. _You got _hurt. _You're not _supposed_ to be _okay_."

He looked almost sheepish.

"I thought Gorski had taken you at first, and saw red. Then Gorski approached me, and from where you had crashed, the prospect of Chance taking you became all too real. Gorski was the lesser of two evils. Gorski did not have a small army of disciples behind him."

"In the future, it would be fucking helpful to jot down the addresses of your mortal enemies corresponding to my vacation itineraries," she joked, but winced as her head hurt from the pathetic attempt at humor.

He hesitated. "They'll probably let you out tomorrow."

She nodded. "I hope so, but I don't want to go to—my old place."

"You could probably stay with Cady a few nights until Sean leaves…"

She gave him a look, _the_ look. Her mother called her _The Terror_ for it. Most men quailed under it. He merely smiled at her, although it was only a half-smile, and tense with exhaustion.

"Not until you make your decision final and everything is signed up all tight, Vic. I won't poach. No room 32s in Durant."

"The only man in the country…" she groaned.

"I'm not Gorski _or_ Sean."

All she could think was, _no_, thank God!—and because of that, he would be well worth the wait.

**WALT—Fragment of the Same Scene**

He knew from personal triage he wasn't hurt bad, but he knew sometimes wounded animals were the most dangerous, and Chance Gilbert was among the most dangerous of animals—like the short story _The Most Dangerous Game_ he had long ago read in school. He carefully kicked Chance's gun away with his toe, staying well-away in the event Chance was faking it, but he unfortunately recognized all-too-well the signs of a few agonizing last breaths; he could do nothing for him. Still, he was loathe to holster his weapon on the off-chance Chance might have left a compadre or two behind to finish off a pesky sheriff, to carve another notch to his government war lance, in addition to the highway patrol trooper and census agent. When had he become so paranoid? Over 20-plus years staying alive, that's when.

Branch came walking up the drive, his arrogance in check for once.

"Saw the cars take off!" he shouted. "Called the Feds for backup. Is Vic a hostage in one?"

Normally, this would irritate him, but in this case, the initiative was appropriate, it was not Absaroka jurisdiction, after all, more state and Federal. He nodded and waved with his good arm, still clutching his weapon. "I sent Vic out with Sean and Gorski."

"Gorski. Now _there's_ a story."

"For another night. The Feds can process this crime scene. Hopefully Ferg and Ruby are holding the fort?"

"As far as I know. I came looking for you and Vic."

Branch apparently finally noticed Chance and went over, presumably to see if he could render aid. Walt hoped it was already too late, even as his body decided it was time to sit. Fast.

He had just gotten marginally comfortable on a log when he heard the roar of a familiar engine and a cloud of choking dust rose in the night air around his very own truck as it spun to a stop. He blinked, thinking it was a cyclonic apparition, when Vic, his appropriately dubbed "Terror," staggered a little, dropped to the ground and took in the situation, Branch stooping over Chance. In her civilian clothes and despite her condition, she was a sight for sore eyes. He thought maybe she didn't see him, so he called out a soft "Hey," so as not to startle her.

When he saw her eyes, he was lost. _Lost._ They were the eyes of concern—of love. Maybe at the moment, the concern overrode the love, but he would swear it was there. She had come back, and he was astonished. Momentarily speechless, although for him, that condition was not unique.

"Vic," was all he managed, but he wasn't sure she heard him.

"Look at you, I fucking leave for barely ten minutes and you're already in a shit-storm of trouble."

He managed a weak grin. It was good to be inside the eye of Hurricane Vic. Her presence enveloped him with ferocity. Tenacity. They would get through this—together.

_**Okay, so I started the same scene from Walt's POV. I just thought it would put it in another perspective, but this is all that trickled out… pout**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Missing Scenes Chapter Two**

**After Tensleep **

**(Set After S2E1, "Unquiet Mind")**

Although the day was clear and bright atop the mountain, the chopper threw up a cloud of snow as it descended. The wind from the blades must have had wind chill of minus bazillion. From where she sat white-knuckled with Ferg in the copter, the landscape around them was barren above tree line as they were, but as the cloud died down to a mere flurry, to their port side, two brown horses appeared on the horizon.

She suppressed the urge to hurl, fought to release herself and moved to scramble out. Choppers were not her favorite mode of transportation. That this was her first ride on one, and hopefully the last, spoke volumes. She had to be honest with herself, the only thing bringing her up here like this could be Walt. Her guilt at letting him go up the mountain by himself had been replaced by something worse—that she _worried_ about his safety at more than a professional level.

"Keep your head down!" yelled the pilot, a man only introduced to her as Sam.

As she jumped out and began running along the meadow, she could hear the Ferg clomping along behind her, but with more care. She ran toward the horses. As they grew closer, she could see Branch was on the lead one, with Henry behind, holding onto someone slumped in front of him. The brown hat – the jacket, it had to be Walt.

She knew EMTs and the Federal agents were following more circumspectly behind her, but she threw caution to the winds running to them.

"Branch! Henry!" she shouted, waving. The horses began making their way down the slope toward the meadow where the chopper had set down.

The EMTs caught up to her and worked getting a stretcher rigged up while she caught her breath.

"It's okay, Vic," called Branch as the horses wound their way down the slope. "He's still alive," he added, as they got closer. "We got to him in time." What, did she have a wild-eyed look or something? Why would Branch reassure her like that?

Henry added with more caution, "I believe we did, but I do not think he is conscious anymore."

Panic threatened to set in, but she hoped that getting him warm and under a doctor's care could offset that. She trudged through the snow up to where they had stopped a respectful distance from the chopper blades. Walt looked very pale…a little grey, and _frosty_.

Branch dismounted, and together she and Branch assisted Henry with carefully getting Walt off the horse until the EMTs could take over for a formal triage. They laid him on the stretcher, performed a cursory triage, and covered him with several blankets in preparation to get him back to the chopper.

They all trudged back, and she and Ferg assisted the EMTS with the stretcher, even as Henry and Branch were debriefed by Towson and his buddies.

She made the executive decision she should have made at the station. Technically she was Undersheriff and in command until Walt was fit enough to give directives, again.

"Branch, you are lead here, assist Agent Towson," she said the name as though it was a foul concoction, "and Ferg will assist you. Hopefully the Feds will actually round up escapees, accessories, hostages and corpses Walt left in his wake. You two should be documenting fucking _everything_ to ensure our ASD policies and procedures are followed, just in case there is _anything_ that would reflect back or badly on us. What you do today will go up the line in countless courtrooms and convictions." She looked challengingly to Towson, who, for one gratifyingly perfect moment looked as stunned as when she had punched him.

Ferg's eyes were wide, and Branch wouldn't look at her, but neither did he argue. _This_ was what she should have done, she knew it now, but to be honest, the FBI had intimidated her—at first, until Towson had messed with her, but at least she had set him straight. She just hoped career-ending charges would not follow.

The grunt-work assigned, she made another decision, a little dicier one. She knew the EMTs typically rode with their patients, then wives/relatives/friends—and most likely Henry had Pride of Place before her—but she couldn't help herself, and spoke up as the EMTs conferred with Henry.

"I'll ride with him," she blurted out, and at the sharp looks from Henry, Branch and Ferg made her realize that she might be out of line exerting that authority. She was very _definitely_ exceeding the authority of her gut, which quickly reminded her it was _not_ pleased with the decision.

Henry's eyebrows rose, but he said only, "If I am not needed here, then I will take the horses back down. Branch and Ferg can catch rides from the Federal agents." She nodded. In some unspoken way, she figured out that she and Henry were on the same page, but she wasn't quite sure how.

"Oh, Vic," Henry said, staying her with a hand on the sleeve of her duty jacket. He handed her a cracked and broken jumble of plastic. It looked like it had once been her phone. She looked at him for explanation.

"I believe Walt bludgeoned the serial killer with it?" Henry said in grave tones, making her lips turn up.

"Fuck! That _would_ be his preferred use for them," she agreed ruefully and slipped it into her pocket.

Henry moved off toward the horses, and she went over and knelt next to the EMTS. Walt looked like he was asleep, but he seemed to be breathing easily. They had cut off his boots, which she knew would have enraged him if he were awake, cut through several layers underneath she was positive he hadn't been wearing before his trek into the wilderness, and were inspecting his fingers and toes. His right hand was quite swollen, red, and raw. Her breath caught, hoping against hope he wouldn't lose anything in the final outcome. Frostbite and hypothermia in combination were powerful and deadly forces.

"How does he look?" she asked anxiously. One of the EMTs shook his head. "I've seen a lot worse. The man obviously knows his way around the mountains—that, and he's wearing at least $1500 of thermals, including heated socks and gloves."

Her eyes widened. _That_ would have to be explained at some future time. She was pretty sure he hadn't had those on when he had left the comparative comfort and safety of the Bullet.

"We'll airlift him to Billings. They have a lot of experience with this," said the older EMT, a man she had heard called Smitty.

"I'll sit with him, but tell me how to help him get warm again," she said, and the EMTs gave her very specific instructions about warming his toes and fingers with her breath and against her skin until they could get him warm water in the hospital. She could tell they were reluctant about it. Damn it, she did not care, she would plaster her entire _self_ against him if it would help him recover. Not that such an activity would be a disagreeable notion at all.

Just before they lifted off, she borrowed Ferg's cell to relay the particulars to Ruby. For some reason, at the top of the mountain, Ferg phone had two bars. The solitary aborted call from Walt using her phone had been mostly unintelligible. SAT-phones instantly went to the head of her list as required survival equipment in event a disaster like this ever happened again. Knowing how Walt worked, it might.

"I'm glad that someone will be with him," Ruby said from the warmth of the dispatch desk at the station. "Henry just called; he's planning to fly Air Omar up to Billings tomorrow. He can relieve you. I'm already starting on the paperwork, here."

"Okay," said. "Maybe I can fly back down with Omar, then." She grimaced at the notion, but Omar really had a good heart, if he would just leave her alone. He and Myra were finally divorced, so maybe felt even freer to pursue her, but she was still married to Sean. Then she thought about what she was doing, riding up to Billings with Walt. No _wonder_ Henry, Branch, everyone were looking cross-eyed at her.

Of course Cady should be there and with him, but for some reason, no one knew where she was, and she suspected Walt did not know, either. For that reason, inexplicably, she felt she should stand in. Not as daughter, but as a concerned friend of the family. Yeah, right…

The hospital was like all hospitals, soothing in greens and blues, pretending to be quiet until an observer with a lot of time realized how busy a hospital ward really is, day and night.

She sat with Walt and talked to him continually, about her marriage, Sean being gone so much, how Branch and Henry had quietly ridden up to rescue him in defiance of the FBI, how everyone had been looking for him, the status of the waitress, the prisoners he had left behind, and the female FBI hostage he had rescued, and that from what she'd heard, Omar was recovering from his GSW just fine.

One of the nurses had brought her coffee and a sandwich a couple of hours ago, and she had used the bathroom adjoining Walt's room. He was in a single room, a mercy; she wasn't sure if she could have handled another soul in that room hearing her cuss at him about leaving her with prisoner duty while he braved the snowstorm alone.

He was still asleep—or unconscious, but every so often he had murmured something. Once she thought he had murmured Martha, no surprise, and another time, Cady, but he had not woken up, yet. The hospital was short-staffed since people couldn't make it in, and more than a little overwhelmed with casualties still coming in from the storm, so she had volunteered her services.

They had gravely instructed her, after she had made a couple of colorful comments to them about the staff coverage, and added in no uncertain terms, "It's my fault he's here. I don't want him to fucking lose anything due to Deputy Stupidity."

She went through the regimens of warm water, and blowing into her hands on his fingers and toes, putting them in her armpit to warm them, then the whole cycle again. She even worked on his cheeks, nose and ears with the warm water, trying to get them pinker. She talked continually. If he woke up while she was doing it, she might have some explaining to do, but she would not fail him. When she finished with fingers and toes, she would move his arms and legs, just working on circulation. Already they looked pinker and the gray tinge had gone from his face. Hopefully Henry and Branch had arrived in time for any permanent injuries. Why, then, did he not wake?

After five rounds with the water and circulation efforts, she judged that he did not look bad at all, except the back of his right hand, which she carefully bandaged back up after working on it. She took a break, shoved the big recliner near his bed and took the bandaged hand in hers. It was not so much intimate, as continuing to warm his fingers, she told herself, and leaned back for just an instant—

"Well, good morning to you two," came Henry's cheerful voice from the door. The law enforcement officer in her popped her eyes open to assess this new environmental threat, only to see Henry in the doorway smiling, with a very curious Omar crowded in behind him.

She instantly dropped Walt's hand and sat up very straight. To her left, Walt stirred.

"Henry…" he croaked, and everything in her went soft with relief. If he was awake, he was mending.

She slung her small duffel over her shoulder and tiptoed past Henry, although Omar got in a pat to her shoulder as she slipped by. "We lift off at 0900," he whispered to her as she stepped out. She desperately hoped to find a shower room before they left. She knew that now Walt was in good hands, her duty was done. It would be inappropriate to do any more.

Three mornings later, and after a shit-load of paperwork which had seemed like it would never end, Walt arrived at the station before any of them. His right wrist was wrapped; he looked pretty peaked, but much better than anyone expected. He spent most of the day signing papers, although Ruby made him lie down for a couple of hours in the afternoon. Toward five o'clock, he came to the door and barked, "Vic!"

She gave one of her patented eye-rolls and strode back to his office. He was sitting on the couch, looking at his boots. It was an older, muddy pair she had never seen before. She sat down at the other end of the couch from him.

"Do you remember what they did with my boots?"

She grimaced. "Cut them off, along with all those thermals and the heated stuff. You know them EMT-types."

He sighed heavily. "I was afraid of that."

"You can get more boots. You can replace socks and stuff. You can't get more feet."

His eyes met hers. He blinked first. "That's true, I suppose."

"You could have lost all sorts of parts. Is Omar the hero of your toes, here? The EMTs said you had about $1500 of thermals, including warming socks and gloves…"

He shrugged, maybe—blushed?—a little. "Probably. They, uh, tell me that you were there at the hospital before Henry arrived. I am sorry not to remember that."

"Somebody needed to be there. Staff was overwhelmed by the assorted storm-related illnesses and injuries. I just followed their directions."

"Henry said I should thank you."

"Well, Henry is entitled to his opinion, but I would do it for anyone after undergoing that ordeal."

"Anyone?"

"Well, maybe not if it was Branch, but if _you_ fucking died or lost a bunch of parts and it knocked you out of the election, Branch would win unopposed. I couldn't work for him, Walt. I'd have to work for fucking Newett or something as a security guard, or go with Sean to Australia." It did not take much embroidering to achieve the desired effect. She closed her eyes and shuddered.

He was still looking at her. "Sean in town?"

"No." She wondered by he asked. "We're talking about _you_, Walt—you fucking shouldn't have gone up there alone without more supplies, protection for your extremities, SAT communications, and firepower."

He ducked his head, contrite? Maybe—but, no.

"It turned out okay. We got the suspects, the cons and the hostage…"

"You mean, _you_ did."

"Thank you—"

She did a double take. _What_ had he said? He'd never before thanked anyone in the office, other than cursory politeness charming constituents and little old ladies, or maybe, occasionally, Ruby…

"For staying with me. I know Cady probably should have, but I'm not sure where she is right now."

For that, she was truly sorry. She had prior knowledge from _being_ the child in question, that it was one of the shit parts of being a parent, that you couldn't always know everything going on with them.

"Well then, you're welcome, but _don't ever_ put me in that fucking position again."

He nodded, but looked as though he wanted to say more. It took him a while. She could see him struggling in his head. "Did I…do or _say_ anything while I was out of it?"

"I think you said "Martha" and "Cady" at different times. I'm not sure of anything else."

"Oh, okay."

She stared at him. "What did you _think_ you might have said?"

He shook his head, as if to clear it.

She sighed. "Don't do it again, Walt." She was _not _referring to saying Martha or Cady, and it was _not _a request. It was as much of a declaration as she could make. "I'm saying that as Undersheriff, Walt. I should have been with you, or at the very least we should have waited for back-up."

He suddenly looked as exhausted as their conversation. She got up from where he still sat. "I'll tell Ruby you need to get some rest. Maybe take tomorrow off. Unless we have a murder, we won't call you."

"Okay." He sounded so beat he could barely answer.

Concerned, she went out and had a conference with Ruby.

In the end, she drove him home in the Bronco, with Ferg following in her truck. She and Ferg helped him to the sofa. She fought the urge to tuck Walt into bed, but was saved as her cell rang. It was Henry, asking her to stop at the Pony.

She sighed. She expected Henry to chew her out for the helicopter shit. The day just kept getting better.

"How can I help you, Henry?"

He gestured to his office and she followed him in. "Can I get you a beer?" he asked her politely.

"No thanks, I think I'm too tired for even a beer, tonight, so please cut to the chase?"

He gestured to the sofa.

"That was a worthy thing you did for Walt in Billings."

"Worthy?"

"Restoring his circulation. You might have even been the saving of his fingers and toes."

She couldn't meet his eyes. "Who told you that?" she asked, feeling her forehead furrow.

"The staff. When they told us, Walt was very surprised. He truly did not remember that, although he said he remembered hearing your voice."

She shrugged. "I would do the same for anyone having undergone that ordeal," she said, which seemed to have become her default reply when asked.

"Of course," he said, with maybe a hint of sarcasm. "I have groceries for Walt. If I know him, and I do, I know he went back into work too soon and has not reprovisioned. Could you deliver them?"

She pressed her lips together. "I just came from his cabin," she said, but her heart wasn't in it, so she just sighed and smacked her lips. "But, sure. He needs some down time."

"I will check in on him tomorrow, so you do not have to worry anymore."

She shrugged again. "Who's worried," she said, trying to slough it off, putting on what she felt was her tough face.

"You are. That is why you punched out the agent—Ferg told me all about it before I left the mountain. That is why you rode the chopper—something which the Ferg told me terrifies you. That is why you spent the better part of a day in the hospital helping him restore his circulation, instead of supervising paperwork down here. You were worried about Walt. It does you credit."

She did not know what to say.

"I do not know if Walt said anything to you before you left the hospital, but afterwards, he did not sleep well, and asked for you again and again."

Her head came up. "Not—for Martha, or Cady?"

"Not at that point, just you. He said he wanted you to hold his hand."

Her tough face fell. She suddenly felt guilty for slipping out so soon.

"He _said _that?"

"He did. Do not dismiss his feelings, Vic. He knows you are there for him."

Discomfited, she couldn't speak for a few moments, and then, could only say in kind of a choked voice, "Oh—okay. I was glad to be there, but somebody had to mind the store, here, too." Her throat closed, but she couldn't, just _couldn't_ in front of Henry. She took a deep breath.

"So," she sighed, resigned, "Where are those fucking groceries?"

Henry just nodded, rose and together they went toward the kitchen. Vic couldn't decide how she felt, mortified or relieved, that Walt remembered her with him in the hospital. She began to wonder, just what _had_ she said while she had worked over him? She had kind of lost track. She could remember some cussing at him to work his fingers and toes when they wouldn't cooperate. She wasn't sure what else.

Had she said she liked him, had she said anything inappropriate? She didn't think so but whatever had been said would just have to stay between them.

However, she _definitely_ needed to have a little talk with Ferg about confiding in Henry…

A couple of weeks later, she and Ferg returned to the station after rounding up three unruly sheep who had managed to get themselves totally fucking lost in an arroyo. She was coming out of the Reading Room after changing to a clean shirt (sheep _smelled_ something awful!) when she saw an unwelcome face pass the doorway. It was Special Agent Towson, who barely nodded to her as he went past. He did not look particularly happy. She could hear Ruby's cheerful voice accompanying his departure.

She looked toward Walt's office, where he was standing there scowling in the doorway. At Towson? At _her_? She had known her sins would come back to haunt her someday. Walt jerked his head for her to join him. She took a deep breath and strode back to his office with a little less of her typical strut.

She stopped in front of his desk and stood at parade rest, hands behind her back. There were a small stack of files and three tiny flat boxes sitting near the corner of his desk.

"That was a most remarkable visit," Walt said, rearranging a couple of files on his desk. Although he was using his hand again, he still wore a bandage wrapped around it. "It made me realize we need to do some Emergency Preparedness and chain-of-command drills around here."

"We could apply for some grants to get emergency equipment—generators, SAT-phones, maybe some of those heated thermal underwear and the like."

He nodded, but didn't say anything right away. She just waited. He would get around to her punching out an agent in his own good time.

"As Undersheriff, you should have exerted your authority over Branch," he said mildly.

"It's never been—we work as a team." She halted, thrown by his admonishment of what she _could_ have done."

"I've discussed it with Henry. If anything like this happens again and I'm unavailable to make decisions, he will be there to advise you. He was not happy to take Branch up the mountain. He would have preferred it to be you, as Undersheriff. It was your place."

"Look, Walt, Branch went AWOL and Henry just disappeared. I had no idea what they were up to, or that they were even together."

"I've spoken to both Branch and Henry. They are both to defer to _you_ if I am unable to be there for you. I hired you as Undersheriff, not just deputy."

She huffed a little at that.

"But that doesn't mean you can assault special agents, although I think Towson gained some respect for your persistence in the face of the mighty FBI."

"That won't happen again, either," she mumbled, embarrassed. "I was just frustrated. First you take off, we can't reach you, Branch disappears, everything goes to shit and Towson reveals he knows where you are and the weather is clear…"

"But I'll be the first to remember you're pretty good with your fists if you're unhappy," he said, with a genuine, private smile to her."

She made a noise of acknowledgment. What a _bizarre_ interview with the boss…

"Vic. If I hadn't run into Omar up there, I probably wouldn't have made it to the helicopter. If you hadn't stayed with me, I probably wouldn't have all my parts and pieces in working order. I owe both you and Omar."

She made a face and nodded. "I agree about Omar. The EMT's were very impressed at your vest and all the thermals, heated socks and such."

Now he smiled genuinely. "Omar's no rookie. He knows what it takes to survive up there."

He looked at her steadily, but she looked down. She would swear there was more in his gaze than she was willing to admit or allow.

"Are we okay with the FBI, then?" she asked, twirling one of her fingers across his desk.

He said, "Oh," as he tapped a file, "forgot. You, Branch and I have been awarded FBI medals. You and Branch received yours for Meritorious Achievement. There will be duly noted citations in your service records."

Now she made a disbelieving face. "Meritorious Achievement? From the fucking_ FBI?_"

He read from a letter sitting in front of him. "_A decisive, exemplary act that results in the_ _protection or the direct saving of life_, etc. Towson was very clear." He reached for the boxes, selected one, and handed it to her. "This is the medal part of the award. I'll award Branch his on the next shift we have together."

"I understand _you_ getting one, you were a one-man tracking, assault &amp; retrieval force, but _Branch _and _me_?"

He compressed his lips and nodded, but a smile lurked behind them.

"I punched out Towson, and I get a fucking medal? That _so _makes it worth it."

His smile broadened. "I think Towson was glad he didn't have to be the one awarding it to you."

"So what did they give _you_ if they gave us Meritorious?"

"You're right, I didn't get that one," he admitted.

Now she cocked her head and stared pointedly at the boxes, because she wanted to know.

"They gave me the Star. Goes with being put in the hospital, I guess."

"Shit!"

He shrugged. "That's all."

She waited; knowing his style, she knew she had been dismissed, but he obviously had something additional to say…

"You might want to make a stop at the Reading Room and wash your face, Deputy Moretti. You look like you've been out chasing sheep."

She snorted and left him to his files. A thought occurred to her on her wait out. She turned back.

"Wait. Walt, why didn't Henry get a medal, too?"

His lips twisted. "I asked the same thing."

"And?"

"He's not in law enforcement. What Towson didn't add was, _because he's an Indian_."

She went to wash her face, shaking her head.

Later that night, at the Red Pony, she left the box on Henry's desk, with a post-it saying "THANK YOU" affixed to it. It only seemed right.


	3. Chapter 3

**Missing Scenes**

**Chapter 3**

—**Near End of S1E4 "The Cancer"—**

The trip back from the national forest was almost ominously quiet. Eli sat cuffed and shackled in the back of the Bronco, and they could hear him occasionally shifting to try and get more comfortable. Vic's eyes kept darting over to Walt, who drove with an uncommon intensity and seemed lost in his head. He didn't reply to a couple of tentative inquiries, so she let them rest, unresolved.

Once they heard "I'm so sorry," in a small voice from the back, and both of them up front were equally remorseful that a basically good man, Eli, who had returned honorably and unscathed from multiple tours of duty in Iraq, had chosen to pursue a criminal endeavor which eventually led to murder.

Walt's head was another matter that worried her…he had killed a man. The man had needed killing, but she was pretty sure that took a toll on him greater than he would admit. She withheld comment, but would be watching. She had heard Lucian use the term _bullet fever_ to describe someone experiencing PTSD from such an experience, but she was more afraid Walt might _not._ She was afraid Walt might not exhibit symptoms, or maybe his continuing depression after Martha's death was like all the years of cases and voices and such rolled into one big ball of PTSD manifesting as depressive behavior. She didn't know. Se only knew that there _should_ be a toll.

The mood at the station was no less somber. Once Eli was incarcerated and booked, Walt had disappeared into his office for a long while. She hoped he was recalibrating, but was pretty sure not. Sometimes situations like that needed discussion and processing beyond the 'in-the-head' method which she had observed him use so often. Still, she did not feel she knew him well-enough to confront him with a hearty _what the fuck!_ to get the ball rolling.

Vic waded through the paperwork to finish the case, and it seemed like much later that Walt barked "Vic!" A quick glance at her phone showed it was just shy of 3 p.m.

Her chair screeched as she scooted away from her desk, and she briskly headed back to his office. She stood in front of his desk, her hands clasped in front of her. He still looked as perturbed as he had in the Bronco, like he might need a _hug_. She rather desperately wanted to be the one to go around the desk and administer said hug, but held back. It wouldn't be appropriate in any set of parameters she could imagine, and the lines which sometimes seemed blurry but a safety net for them both, might disappear.

"Walt, what the _fuck_?" she asked finally, throwing caution to the winds and giving voice to her recurring thoughts. He still seemed lost in his head, but her words must have finally penetrated.

"Let's go to the Pony," he said suddenly.

"Okay…" she said a little confused. "I'm still on duty…"

"Let's go now. We solved Freddy's murder, so we'll both take the rest of the day off. I'll tell Ruby."

He went out and spoke to Ruby, came back and gestured her out of his private door. They filed out silently, clambered in the Bronco and he _still_ didn't speak. She compressed her lips and laid a hand on his right forearm.

"Walt, wait. Tell me what's bothering you, n_ow_, _before_ we get to the Pony."

He looked at her, then back ahead, as though collecting himself. "That was a first, today."

"A _first_?" she asked, her forehead furrowing. She doubted if he spoke about killing Muara. He had been sheriff, and deputy long before that, there had to have been other men he'd shot…

His jaw worked and he nodded. "For me."

She gave him a look, like a _more please_, or _explain_. She could not yet read his tells well enough to decipher them.

"First time a woman ever saved my life." Sudden illumination.

"Your _life_. You don't know if Eli—"

"I do. He survived combat in Iraq. In combat you only survive by making quick adjustments, quick decisions. He had already made his. He probably would have killed us both, and made it look like Muara had done it. He said he wouldn't quit. I saw it in his eyes. I've seen it before."

She took a deep breath. He was not as unaffected by things as he claimed, but if he was _talking _about those things, that was _good_, right?

"You told him you wouldn't quit, either. You really gave him no choice, if you look at it that way."

"Well."

"Well. Just glad I was close enough. I know it was a near thing."

"You saved my life."

She bit her lip. Then, "Walt, I'm your _back_. That's supposed to be my _job_. I'm not supposed to be away walking another path while you are cornering your suspect."

"You're the first female deputy I've ever had. You're also the first _deputy_ to save my life."

"Oh." This wasn't Philly, this wasn't where detectives operated in partnerships which occasionally included life-or-death moments. This was rural and sparsely-populated Wyoming, with quiet weeks, lost cows and the occasional domestic matter. She knew over the years Walt had employed quite a few deputies and might have one or another with him at different times, but they were not all equally proficient. The county was huge, law enforcement thin, and he often went into unknown situations _without_ deputies.

The Ferg was learning, but still far from ready for situations like the one they had encountered that morning. Branch was closer to that level, but she was the only one of the three who had day-to-day street and patrol experience. That might have made all the difference that morning. Whether she was a woman or not seemed a moot point.

"Maybe I'm slipping." It was almost said as a question.

Now she gave her patented eye-roll and tsk'd him. "No, way, Walt, don't even go there. You didn't—"

"I suspected after Henry told me the plants were a variety from Afghanistan, and Eli had been over there so long. I _knew_ after we started talking on the path today."

"You _knew_, but you let me go off and leave you with him?" That floored her.

"It took me a while to get set to hint that I knew. I initially got the drop on him, but then Muara pinned us down and we had to deal with him as well."

She nodded. His explanation made sense. Well, maybe in a kind of convoluted way. She gave a snort.

"It's almost like the horror movies, where you yell to the screen: "Don't split up!"

That finally got a half-grin from him. It wasn't much of one, but it qualified and she'd take it. His shoulders also relaxed. Maybe he _did _have tells, after all. That piqued her interest, the possibility of _learn_ing them...

"Maybe," was all he said.

Then, as her mind reviewed the morning, a sudden thought hit her, one she didn't like much. "We didn't…split up to protect me or some bullshit like that, did we?"

When he didn't answer, she knew.

The Terror Emerged in full throttle.

"_Fuck_! You did!"

He shook his head, spread his hands. "I thought I had it."

She could feel her face go stony-set and her lips compressed.

"Don't protect me like that, Walt," she said in a very clear, low voice. "You might get yourself killed because you were sheltering me, and then I would never forgive myself. I'd be a basket case. I'd leave Durant, with or without Sean and your department would be a headless horseman."

His eyes flashed to hers, but his head went down a little. He almost looked like a bull ready to charge. It was obvious he was struggling with the notion of _not_ protecting her.

"No, I _mean_ it. I'm your deputy, not your, your...fucking _little lady_, or something."

He made a noise through his nose, as though he _knew_ that.

In lower tones, almost a whisper, she said again, "_Don't protect me _any more than you would Branch or Ferg. I'm your deputy, your partner, your _back_."

He was still struggling with it. "Yes, ma'am," he finally said, but not defiantly, more resigned.

She took a deep breath, still not reassured. "So _why _are we going to the Pony early?" she asked.

"I wanted to thank you in private," he said as they pulled into the Pony's parking lot. "And after this morning, I wanted a drink." He put the truck into Park and unsnapped his seat belt.

"So you've thanked me, and I'll say, you're welcome, but I'm used to being a partner, and partners watch each other's backs. You can drink later, all night if you want, so I'm gonna ask again, why did we leave so early?"

He exhaled deeply. "The last year, I haven't really cared whether I lived or died. I took some really—_dangerous_—chances. Sometimes I'm still surprised I'm here."

"And…today?"

He seemed to take stock. "I suddenly realized I didn't want to take chances, anymore, and I shouldn't have, but I'm glad I lived." He almost sounded surprised. She had wondered, based upon the things he was doing, if closer to Martha's death, he had not necessarily _felt_ that way…

She nodded, pressing her lips together again. "You're glad, so that's good, right?"

Head down to his chest again, he nodded. "Yep."

"So you've already thanked me, but we're going early to toast beers to seal it?"

"Heck, let's celebrate that I lived. I'll buy you an early dinner."

She wasn't quite sure if the line she always worried about at the back of her mind blurred there, since they were both off-duty, but after the morning they'd had, it seemed innocent enough. She'd never known Walt to overstep his boundaries.

"You're on—earlybird special and a beer."

"Maybe more than one beer. I'll drive you home if you drink too much, speaking of which, is Sean in town?"

What an odd question.

"Does it matter?"

"No, just didn't want him thinkin' the wrong thing if I took you home after a few beers. Like you said, if I want to, I can drink all night."

"Ah. Well, no, he's in Alaska for a few weeks. No harm, no foul."

"Well, okay. We'll celebrate that I'm not lying in Durant Memorial's morgue."

"What a cheery thought!" she said, taken aback at the gallows humor. "Okay, that got me ready for those beers like nothing else could."

She slid out and followed him, concern at his reactions still dogging her. When had she become so concerned _for_ him? Wanting to protect _him_? The thought occurred to her that maybe she wasn't yet ready to face the truth of that answer, and the lines remained as blurry as ever in her mind.


	4. Chapter 4

**Missing Scenes**

**Chapter 4**

**After the Punch S3E10 "Ashes to Ashes"**

Vic's nose throbbed, and in the mirror of the Reading Room, she could see puffy angry circles darkening under both eyes. Those were going to turn black. Shit, Walt had really got her good.

Ruby intercepted her the moment she'd come out of the Reading Room, still unprofessionally blood-spattered and reeking of Henry's whiskey, and guided her to Walt's couch. After many years under her belt with Lucian, Walt and an assortment of rogue Absaroka deputies participating in testosterone-fueled brawls, Ruby returned with an icepack, a glass of water, and some aspirin.

"You just lie down there for a while. "I can't believe Walt hit you."

"He didn't—I mean, he didn't _mean_ to. I don't think he'd ever _intentionally_ hit a woman, or a deputy, for that matter, although I saw him fighting with Branch that once. Um. Ruby, I'm in charge. Walt's headed to Denver."

"I know, he called in a few minutes ago. I have no idea what happened between you—"

"Jacob Nighthorse _happened_. I just _happened_ to be in the way."

"What, did Nighthorse say something derogatory about Martha again?"

She froze, and pulled the icepack down for a minute. "How did you _know_ that?"

"Oh, because every couple of months when something holds up the casino, Jacob starts to spout off, again. Fortunately, Walt's usually not around. It's like Jacob blames it all on Martha, and then Walt gets all bent out of shape about it and has to defend her honor."

"Even though she's dead and gone, Nighthorse still blames her?" Vic had almost whispered the word _dead_, people spoke almost reverentially about Martha, and there were times she felt like a crude interloper if she hoped for a future with Walt after his life with a really good woman. She knew without asking that _she_ wouldn't be remembered like that.

"_Especially_ because she's gone. He lost a lot of support when she died. It would have been better for the casino had she stayed alive, keeping his supporters invested in the process and fighting the good fight."

Vic did _not_ understand that, so she asked, "Who would gain from that?" she asked from behind her icepack.

"Who else but Barlow, he's determined to finish that new golf course for the dude ranches, and that includes probably anyone involved in his consortium."

_Barlow?_ She sighed, tabling that for later, and impressed with Ruby's use of the word _consortium._ Huh!

However, being in charge, included giving orders. It was one of her best skills. This time, though, instead of issuing any, she asked Ruby meekly, "Could you please tell Ferg to cover for me this afternoon, unless you think I need to go out with him?"

"Already did that, so if you can, get some rest. I'm just hoping what Walt finds in Denver is worth his time."

"Me, too," she said, and, fueled by three shots of whiskey and the aspirin, closed her eyes and let herself sink into a drowsy, almost dreamlike state.

"_I want you to stay." _

She had thought at first Walt wanted her to stay late to indulge in a little after-hours hanky-panky. It was not like him, but after all, he had shot out to the bridge to protect her from Branch, had even intimated 'someone should stay on with her,' and by _someone_, he sounded like he was volunteering. At the time, she hadn't thought much of it, but since Walt had already known that morning that Sean was filing for divorce, well, it did occur to her later.

But it had been all business, her signing her divorce papers. She must have been wrong about his eyes. Walt broke from his duty to the court, stumbling along to reveal he wanted her to stay…but she had no idea whether he wanted her as deputy, or more. He hadn't kissed her to illustrate a personal interest, and they'd gone on about business as usual in the following days, to leave her more unsettled than ever.

She knew he had a lot on his plate. Henry's trial was coming up, the star witness had been murdered, and even after a lot of fruitless digging, there weren't any apparent links between Darius and Martha's death.

But then, just that morning, there was the feathers thing—maybe a break in the case—_she thought he might have kissed her right there in the Red Pony, in front of Henry, Cady, everyone, while she was cleaning his ear…_but then he keyed in on the word "feathers"—and was gone to Denver in a few minutes, that intense look on his face, without saying anything to her at all_._

Was that what happened when Walt overthought? Maybe he just had too much time to think, at that cabin, over the long, vile-weathered winters and no family anymore to keep him busy. Was this her version of that, when whiskey and aspirin conspired to make her thoughts whirl?

She woke up to ringing with a sore head to match her sore face. The noise was her phone. It said 5:11 pm, so she knew she must have eventually fallen asleep. She automatically put it to her ear. Where the phone touched her cheek, it hurt.

"Vic, it's me." Walt. "How's the nose?"

"Matching eyes. It's a fashion statement. How's the ear?"

She thought she heard him wince, or maybe grimace. He made a noise. "Listen, I'll be back to Durant late, but I need to talk to Henry, then, and I don't know when I'll be back in the office. You're in charge until that time, but if you need me and if you can't get me, call Jim Wilkins over in Cumberland, for advice or an extra pair of hands. Don't call Mathias unless it's an emergency. You think you can handle it?"

"Shit, yes, of course. It's quiet here this week, Walt."

"Did the guys from the store in Cheyenne come up yet?" That was their code for the Department of Criminal Investigation, and their headquarters based in an old Safeway in Cheyenne.

"Supposed to be here tomorrow, to go over David Ridges' car in the print shed."

"Good."

"Is there anything we can do here to help on this end?"

"Maybe. Hopefully I'll have something for you soon. Vic…thanks, and just in case—"

"Yeah, I know, you're sorry about the nose. You _do_ know that if I hadn't been there, you'd be locked up here on fucking assault charges and not Sheriffing in Denver? It's not the old days, Walt, mano-a-mano and all that…?"

Silence on the other end. Then, "I know. What I was going to say was, since this happened so soon after your concussion, you might want have Dr. Weston check you out."

She made one of her thinking exhalations. Somehow, in all the madness, he was still worried about her. It said something about him, and probably more than guilt. "I will, if I have any blurred vision or symptoms."

"Okay."

"Don't let that ear go."

"Okay."

"Be careful, Walt." It was all she could think of in the eye of the shit-storm that was the past month.

There was silence on the line. Then, "Martha used to say that."

Shit. Shit. Shit. How could she ever hope to compete with the Paragon of Durant? She sighed. "It still bears repeating."

"I know."

You can't let Nighthorse get to you like that."

"Nothing gets to me."

"Tell my nose that."

"I'm sorry—"

She didn't want to hear another apology. She knew he was sorry.

"Have you thought it might be some manifestation of PTSD? You had just fought Ridges, and we're both probably carrying shit-loads of it right now from Chance's."

Another silence. "I don't know." But she wondered if she had just triggered another attack of thinking. Maybe enough to short-circuit any further violence, she hoped.

"Just consider it. See you tomorrow—or whenever you get back."

She hung up on him, forced herself to her feet. The puffiness in her nose had decreased with the ice pack, but she was sure that when she looked in the mirror again, the skin under her eyes would be edging toward an eggplant color, on their way to black.

No make-up would hide it, and she was positive Ferg would have a field-day with raccoon references for the next week. She was pretty sure that by now, all the Great Gossips of Durant had probably been informed that her _male _boss had hit her, Walter Longmire had hit his own deputy, but more than that, had hit a _woman_.

She sighed. Damage control. What a sleazeball Nighthorse was, if she could get to Jacob Nighthorse, herself, she would. Might not be strictly according to the books, but…she wasn't from Philly for nothing.

Ruby knocked at the doorway.

"I'm heading out. Ferg's just finishing up a missing dog call. Do you need anything?"

"Walt just called."

"Yes, he called me earlier. I told him you were napping. Sounds like you get most of the post-its tomorrow morning."

Vic gave a sour smile and jerked her head in acknowledgment. With a morning of post-its to look forward to, yeah, she was in charge, all right.

XXX

Ruby was there with her early the next morning after a cursory run through the post-its. Ferg and Lucian were going to take night dispatch and calls while Walt was still investigating, God only knew where. Omar had called looking for Walt once, but they couldn't help him. No one knew where he was, but the monitoring agency called three times looking for Henry. Uh-oh. Sounded ominous to her.

Her whole face and her head hurt, but she didn't think they were anything concussion-related.

The Ferg was just finishing up the files on the David Ridges attempted murder of a law enforcement office, about done with his night shift. He moved off to the files to put everything away.

First visitor in the door was a sad-faced but pleasant-looking woman in her forties.

"I'm Ellen George. I'm here to see Sheriff Longmire."

Ruby was polite but took a message for Walt for later.

"Then I'd like to speak with Deputy Moretti."

Shit. Her face was not her best feature that morning, but she stood up, resigned.

"I'm Deputy Moretti," she said by way of introduction. "How can we help you?"

I'm with the Victim's Assistance Center." Ellen George handed her a card and studied her face. "I think it may be more along the lines of, 'How can we help _you_?' "

"I'm sorry?" Her confusion was genuine. She had no cases pending where assistance had been requested. Absaroka was a comparatively quiet county for that sort of thing.

"Your face. Workplace violence?"

"_What_?" she clipped off, her radar now buzzing. "Why would you think _that_?"

"We received a tip," Ms. George said, lips pursed, cagey. Of course all tips were anonymous to prevent additional violence to tipsters.

She did a slow burn. Nighthorse's office, even a well-meaning secretary might have done such a thing, but more likely it had been perpetrated by someone _not_ well-meaning. _Jacob Nighthorse_, for example.

"You are absolutely incorrect. If there had been any kind of violent act perpetrated against me, I would have been the first to press charges. This was an accident while we were out on a call. In this line of work, they happen from time-to-time."

From her desk nearby, Ruby looked white. Of course any charges against Walt could be serious, even potentially career-ending. They would at the very least drag-out over a long period of time, with substantial publicity, and at great expense.

"We can file a case independent of you, if you are afraid your boss would fire or…"

"Would you _fucking stop!_ I have never met a kinder person around women. I have worked with him almost four years, and he would never intentionally hit one. He did not _intentionally_ hit me!"

"So, he was going to assault this…" and she consulted her notes, "Jacob Nighthorse?"

A new visitor entered, a rather insignificant man wearing a suit.

"Oh, Dr. Wegdahl. I'm glad you've arrived. We'd like you to examine Ms. Moretti, here…"

"Fucking _no_! Ferg!"

The Ferg suddenly appeared at her elbow. "Escort these two people out, please. They have no business here."

"Wait!" spluttered Ms. George. "We're going to need a statement, and those of the witnesses."

"There are no witnesses, here, nor is anyone pressing charges. Accidents happen in law enforcement, and if it was Deputy Ferguson here sporting a black eye, no one would think twice. Good day."

The Ferg gestured them toward the stairs, but didn't lay a hand on them. When he returned, he jerked a thumb at the stairs. "They asked me on their way down the stairs if Walt had a record of beating up women."

She snorted. "They would."

"So," he asked conversationally, clearing his throat, "Been washing your food more than usual, lately?"

She almost hit him herself. In extreme cases, there were _almost_ sufficient justifications for workplace violence.

XXX

The rest of the previous day had been very quiet, thank goodness.

This morning had broken the peaceful streak. The Ferg had just called from Durant Memorial, where he had responded to a 5 am call of a break-in. He was currently dusting for prints. That call was followed shortly from Walt, on her cell.

"How you feeling?" he asked. She wouldn't ask _him_; he sounded exhausted.

"Just ducky, how about you? I am assuming Henry is with you? The monitoring company has been sending love notes."

"No comment on Henry."

"The Ferg politely threw out two loons from the Victim's Assistance Center for Workplace Violence yesterday morning."

"Why?"

"Someone at Nighthorse's office evidently reported our little misadventure there. They wanted me to press charges, and may still file something against you."

Silence.

"Are you headed back?"

"I'm back, on Henry's phone."

"Okay. Are we playing cloak-and-dagger on his phone, which the monitoring company _could_ GPS, or at least triangulate, or you gonna tell me the game?"

"I'll be there in a few minutes. Could you stick around?"

"Sure, but the Ferg—"

"Just spoke with the Ferg. I need to talk to you. Call the monitoring company and have them swing by."

She sighed. "Okay. See you soon."

Maybe they were coming to the other side of the eye of the shit-storm.

She sighed again. Nothing sounded right, but she kept Jacob Nighthorse and what Ruby had said about Barlow in the back of her mind to discuss with Walt after the storm blew through…


	5. Chapter 5

**Missing Scenes**

**Chapter 5**

**BEYOND BOOK: Any Other Name, Philadelphia**

_**A/N: Spoilers galore, so if you are planning on reading "Serpent's Tooth" and/or "Any Other Name," do NOT read further. This is potential downer, so you are forewarned. Is anyone ELSE as perturbed as I am about what happened at end of ST and in parts of AON? I just had to address this. I own nothing. **_

_**P.S. Vic's husband in the books was GLEN. She divorces him sometime during early part of first book. **_

_**P.P.S. Damn, ended not such a downer as I had thought. Whew**_

Her life had gone to pieces one September afternoon thanks to a very bad man named Tomas Bidarte who had intended to kill Walt, almost killed her instead, but he had not missed Walt's son who would-have-been, and now, there could be no more. The same evil man had killed Deputy Frymire a few days before. Only being in the hospital had prevented her from attending _that_ funeral. She could have attended it for her son, as well.

There followed weeks of sympathy in Durant, the offering of a corsage in lieu of being able to take her to prom and see his number retired, the weeks of recovery. No one would meet her eyes, and she had needed to leave the cocoon of concern there to try and get her arms around the enormity of it. In a fit of optimism, she invited her mother for a couple of weeks in Belize, but her mother's shrewd assessment sent her spiraling into depression, not lifting from it. Drinking to forget only worked for a few hours at best. Yes, she was probably clinically depressed. Could you have post-partum depression when there was no baby?

So after pointing all that out, instead of staying to help her work through it, Lena left.

When she had returned to Durant, she had resumed her—well, what the _fuck_ did you call it with the sheriff who had not taken the hint to ask her to marry him?—to nail down that hearth and home thing. She wasn't his girlfriend by a long-shot, not _any_ kind of mistress, and certainly not his wife, and now, with no possibility of a family, there was no need for any of that, really. She had told herself multiple times that this freed her to become sheriff when Walt decided to retire, then run at the next election. A baby would have complicated all that, to be sure. Now that all seemed moot and empty.

When she found out Walt wasn't on her HIPAA health advisement list, she was relieved, so he couldn't have learned much about her condition. At least he didn't know about the baby, or he probably would have charged off after Bidarte by himself. She couldn't have lived with herself if he had. That was _her_ right to do. Someday. But it sounded like Bidarte was sending contract killers to kill Walt, and he was probably safer in Durant than anywhere Bidarte might have taken himself off to in Mexico.

After a physically satisfying reunion, instead of clearing the air, they had painfully skirted around the reality of things, discussed the disappearance of the killer, and during the course of that, she had revealed she thought she was a hairsbreadth shy of a full-blown syndrome. He was in the middle of a case, he was _always_ in the middle of a case, and she usually reveled in that and working with him to solve them, but this time, there was a void where they had not treaded, words that had needed to be said, decisions that had needed to be made. What ones, she wasn't yet sure, only that more than dirty dishes had been left on that truck-stop table. He had left her to take a bath and nearly been killed.

So, no decisions, no choices, and in the end, he'd nearly gotten himself killed _three_ times, if she was counting correctly. The stubborn object of her affection was currently sitting in a hospital-issue easy chair heavily bandaged and stitched and looking like he could put his hat over his eyes and be instantly asleep, except that he was holding his very new and very wrinkled granddaughter, Lola, with a besotted expression on his face.

The whole family had been in and out since the birth, and she knew her parents were in similar raptures. The incessant chatter, the _happiness,_ and she _was_ happy for Michael and Cady, what kind of sister, dad's girlfriend (boy, did _that_ sound fucked!) would she be if she weren't?

No, it was the realization as she had briefly held little Lola, that she would now have been six months along with Walt's son, but Tomas Bidarte had murdered her only possible biological child, and permanently sterilized her.

Suddenly noise and warmth of the room began to choke her. Every word beat at her like black wings. Every sound of laughter was hollow. The celebratory atmosphere only reminded her of dirges and emptiness echoing around the edges of her consciousness. Her parents, brothers and their wives and girlfriends had been filing in and out, but she could tell Walt was loath to let go of Lola since he'd had such a hard fought fight to get there before her birth.

She didn't blame him, but she envied him. She would never have any grandchildren, now, unless she married him and Lola became a step-granddaughter as well as a niece. Neither was appealing. She was not ready to be a fucking grandmother, yet, she had really thought she'd try the mom thing, first.

Adoption, what had Walt said, 'YOU could adopt?" Fuck, _who _was he to say_ that? Just _her? Like a lonely woman adopting a dog or cat with which to play dress-up? That was messed up. He completely took himself out of the equation. At least he hadn't known about the baby, so there was no guilt thing for them to discuss. It occurred to her that she must have messed up early summer, forgotten to take her pill while they were overnight on a case. Funny how that had never happened all the years she'd been with Glen.

Walt just looked so euphoric, it wasn't fair to have her shitty mood spoil his. She sighed, and stood upright from where she had been propping up the wall. "I'm going to get some fuckin' air," she said quietly, so that only Vic Junior heard, and he gave a distracted nod of assent.

She padded off in search of…she wasn't _sure _what. She didn't want a bridge, a bullet was too easy, alcohol too temporary, but she needed to go, to walk, to be able to _think _and disappear for a while.

XXX

Lola was finally back in the bassinet next to Cady. A bevy of people were still there to help whenever Cady needed it.

Exhaustion bore down on him and he felt like he had hit the proverbial brick wall. If he didn't get some sack time, preferably with his favorite deputy, he thought he might just lie down on the floor next to Cady, tip his hat over his face, and join Lola in a nap. But as he turned to leave after giving an equally exhausted-looking Cady a kiss on the forehead, he didn't see Vic anywhere.

He scowled. She had seemed glad to see him, for him to rescue her from the whirling dervish which was her family, but then his heart had kind of turned into a puddle meeting his first grandchild, and he had sort of lost track. Vic hadn't said a word. He hoped she had headed for the hotel, because he was equally hoping to join her very soon, but to just bail wasn't like her.

"Could I borrow someone's cell?" he asked, and dialed Vic's number. No answer. Now, that was even _more_ troubling. He couldn't remember the last time she hadn't answered, except up a Wyoming canyon or in the mountain, but certainly not in a city with ample bars.

"Vic tell any of you where she was going?" he asked over the hub-bub.

Victor Junior raised a hand. "Said she was going out for air."

"Air? It's like zero out there," said proud father Michael, sitting near Lola's clear bassinet like a sentinel protecting her from evil. "Hope she's okay. Know she's been through the meat-grinder lately."

"Damn," murmured Walt, and his lips twisted. Michael's words were an understatement. It was not like Vic. At least, it had not been like the Vic he'd known before Belize. That Vic had been moody, but at least he had learned why from Issac—she had been seven weeks pregnant before Bidarte intervened.

No, _this_ Vic was moody all the time. He had seen the disquiet in her eyes when he arrived at the hospital. Their physical reunion when she had returned from Belize had been enthusiastic and he had known relief that her injury hadn't impacted that, but he was afraid that mind-wise, she had checked out somewhere beyond his reach, and hadn't been paying attention as she might. All he knew was that the tsunami of events needed to be sorted and account taken before moving any farther.

At least the case Lucian had got him into had been solved, and two of the missing women found alive. He would always regret the death of the third, execution-style in front of him. He sometimes woke sweating just thinking of it, and Virgil's pronouncements throughout. Some days he knew he was just bat-shit crazy, likely why he and Vic got along so well in the course of things. They both carried baggage, but right now, it was time to find Vic.

"Anyone have the hotel number?" he asked, and two did, but calling that elicited no answer.

He could just go and wait for her there, and catch some much-needed shut-eye and down-time, but there had a been a look in her eyes he could not define…a look which had not been there, before…grief, envy, despair, anger—at _him_? She was probably angry at him for something, he knew he had screwed up, cutting his arrival so fine before Lola's birth. This may have been one of those few times when Vic had needed him more than Lucian, or even Cady…and he hadn't been there, for her.

He sighed. He needed to look for her.

"Anyone have any idea where she might have gone?" he asked to the room, to a silent chorus of Philly shrugs.

Little Lola began to whimper.

"Maybe wet," he said, as three uncles converged to assist Cady. He took that opportune moment to give a little wave and escape the baby care convention.

Where _was_ she?

He had the uncomfortable feeling she might have been transported back into her recent hospital nightmare upon seeing the baby. He couldn't prove it, but there had been that _something_ in those tarnished gold eyes…

"Damn," he said again. Looked like neither sleep nor football were on the agenda for this frosty New Year Day afternoon.

XXX

He took a picture of her printed from Michael's phone, taken a couple of hours ago, holding Lola. Vic had a distinctive look, blue-black hair, the tarnished eyes. Surely _someone _saw her leave the hospital…

After about a half-hour of asking people with everything from street-carts to sitting on benches, to a homeless man, he hit pay dirt.

"Oh, yeah…what a looker. She yours?"

Years of police work nearly went out the door as he held back punching his witness.

"You want to make something of it, or just tell me what you saw?"

"She went off—that way—" he pointed. "Toward the port."

Shit.

"Thanks," he said, and passed the man a fiver, hoping the guy wasn't just bullshitting him.

"You a cowboy?" the man asked as he strode away.

He kept walking but turned his head back. "Not today."

XXX

She was freezing, probably literally. The wind carried over water was brutal, but it felt cleansing. Her essence needing cleansing. It was like Bidarte's knife had left more than sepsis infection, it had infected her soul. She sat at the end of a pier, where she could be really alone, tears freezing on her face, and in no hurry to end or continue life, she was just _there._

Just as quick as that thought, _he_, looking inutterably weary and wounded, bent to kneel, then sit beside her.

He didn't say anything. He didn't touch her. It occurred to her that he might think he was talking her back off the edge of a building. No, not literally, but definitely the edge of sanity. Or at least water.

She said with a resigned sigh, "You and Henry always _were_ the best trackers."

He shrugged, paused. "I wanted the baby," he started with, shocking her past her frozen face. "Our baby."

She sucked her breath in. "Who _told_ you?"

"Isaac. He is sorta too old for that HIPAA nonsense with me. The law trumps health secrets when there's a victim."

"There were two victims. Or at least three, I guess, if you add Frymire."

"Yep."

New tears coursed down her face. "The baby was a boy. I would have named him Henry."

Silence. Then, "I didn't know that. Either of those things." Was he as shocked as he sounded?

She shrugged. "Yeah, so I screwed up with my pills sometime early summer. I'd only just suspected, not even confirmed it. Should've worn a vest, should've stayed back, but we hadn't planned that little takedown…He was going to _kill _you, Walt…"

"Was that why you tried to get me to ask you to marry me?"

Silence. Then, "No. I'm just tired of living alone. The novelty of my house has worn off when I have to go home to nothing there. It seems like I'm only really happy when I'm with you, so I want to be with you as much as possible."

"I've wanted to marry you since you divorced Glen. You said you didn't want hearth and home, so I was afraid to ask. Should I have been asking?"

"I'm a piece of shit."

At that, his arm came around her.

"No, I hope you will be my wife, Ms. Moretti-Longmire or however you want to be called, and _we'll_ adopt a houseful if you want. I always liked being a dad, despite the tough parts. The first thing to accept is that every parent makes mistakes."

She hiccupped a little. "And pancakes?" she asked, smiling through the tears.

"Those, too."

"Or…what if we don't adopt, just do a lot of babysitting for Lola?"

"No kids if that's what you want, it will simplify you becoming sheriff. Either way, we'll go away to somewhere tropical for a honeymoon."

Huh. "What about cases?"

He shrugged. "We'll figure it out."

She still sat hunched over.

"Hey," he said softly, the arm tightening around her. "I'm about to fall asleep and into the water, I am not really a fan of freezing water. Remember doing CPR on me, or me after Cloud Peak? I was a mess both times. Do you think we could sort out the details after about twelve hours of sleep?"

She looked up, the suppressed snark suddenly stealing out. "Just sleep?"

"More if you can get me awake for it," he promised with sudden enthusiasm.

She looked out over the water again. "I won't be called Grandma."

He gave that secret half-smile. "Vickie?"

She punched him. The sadness of fatigue-fog was still there, all around her, but so was he. He was _life_, and she would follow him through that fatigue-fog until they emerged from it, not unscathed, for they both bore their visible and invisible scars, but _together_.


	6. Chapter 6

**Missing Scenes**

**Chapter 6**

**S3E9 "Counting Coup" Divorce Papers**

_**Hmmm…this is not technically a "missing scene," more of interpretation and backstory, so please indulge me if I put it in MS. Another writer has done this actual scene recently in Walt's point of view. I'm taking a stab at it from Vic's point of view. Remember, she's just had a tumultuous day being choked, having Walt join her at the bridge in full Walt Protect Mode and surprisingly offering to 'stay on' with her, finding David Ridges' phone, arresting Jacob Nighthorse with Walt at a party, and then having Walt telling her he needs to talk to her on her way out the door, after Ferg takes that agreement to be filed at the county D.A.'s office. **_

She knew Walt respected marriage and would not mess around while she still was married. But he had asked to her to remain for a minute at the end of a fucking long and shitty day. She had been choked by Branch, and she hid the faint bruising under the collar of her shirt. Walt had raced out to the bridge where she was processing Ridges' car, and she knew it was because he remembered how vulnerable she had felt while Gorski was stalking her, and after enduring torture at Chance's hands. He had made that unusual statement about _staying on _with her before she'd found Ridges' phone, but that had led to getting a warrant and arresting Nighthorse, who was now already out of jail pending that agreement to give up Ridges. A fucking _shitty _day. As Walt shut the office door behind them, she threw him a _WTF, Walt_? look…What, _now_? Was he going to ask her out or something, after the day they'd had?

But there he went, retreating behind the desk in his best Neutral Boss mode…leaving her at parade rest like she was going to be called on the carpet. Noooo…not asking her out, then, but he was nervous. All his tells were _on_, the bouncing foot, fingers splayed on the desk, struggling with words…

He went on about one of the duties being to serve papers, blah, blah…She smart-sassed whether he was leading up to her serving somebody a subpoena on the way home…

He cleared his throat. "I'm required to give you this on behalf of the court." He handed her a manila envelope, almost releasing it into her hand as though it were toxic.

She unsmiled. _Shit_. He was serving _her_? For _what_?

As she opened it, she saw a few papers inside. She looked down at the cover page, and sat before her legs went out from under her. What a shit-bird Sean was, to make _Walt_ of all people serve her with divorce papers. What kind of fucking immature, moronic stunt was that?

Sean may have suspected Walt of something, but Walt had done nothing, _nothing_ to warrant that kind of treatment from Sean. No, _Walt_ hadn't.

But had _she?_

_Maybe_…if you counted openly flirting with your boss, who had an adjoining motel room while you both were on a case in Arizona.

_Maybe..._if you counted going bat-shit crazy in front of your husband over a body bag holding a dead trooper, thinking it was your boss who was inside.

_Maybe…_if you counted leaving your beaten and concussed husband with no tactical or patrol training alone in the backseat of a Ford Granada to return for your boss, who had, although heroically, possibly just laid his life down for both of you and husband, not knowing if said boss were alive or dead.

_Maybe…_if you ignored an ultimatum to quit the job you had trained for and loved, for your husband's transfer to_ Australia_?

_Maybe…_if humiliating your husband in the bedroom counted in the scheme of things. Of course she was stronger than him. She could take down guys forty or fifty pounds heavier than her without much of a struggle. Wristlocks and leverage usually worked. What about bigger guys? Could she take down Branch, for example? Maybe, with surprise and a whole lot of luck.

_Maybe…_if you considered a tall cowboy populated your dreams, instead of your husband.

But Walt had not acted on to start or take part in any of those issues, with the exception of offering the comfort of an enveloping hug after they both, battered and bruised, had been sent on their way by the hospital. Yes, he had offered her his bed—solo—at his cabin, in an attempt to protect her from Gorksi. He sure hadn't seemed eager to take her up on her flirting at the motel, although he had looked momentarily surprised when he opened the connecting door to see her fully dressed and jacketed and ready to go find that Norwood character. He had even offered her time with Sean for them to work things out, including that fateful weekend off when they had decided to go to Jackson and ended up in Chance's clutches. Yes, he had taken it on himself to warn off Gorski when Sean was out of town and the stalker wouldn't back off, but Walt had not done anything to deserve that kind of treatment from Sean.

So now, well…She sat down and began to read the papers, but to her astonishment, Walt was trying to say something in that unique and not always successful way of his.

Stumbling, hemming, hawing…before he finished with, "_I want you to stay."_ _Bingo_. She remembered Henry saying a couple of weeks after the election, when Cady was recovering at Walt's cabin and she had gone in for a drink at the Pony, how difficult it had been to get Walt to admit he wanted to win the election, that it was like pulling teeth to get Walt to ever admit to _anything_ he wanted.

"_I want you to stay."_

She looked into intense cobalt eyes, almost in an agony that he had not said it right, trying to communicate what he seemed not to be able to articulate.

Her perception was that _Walt the Man_ wanted her to stay, _not_ Neutral Boss Walt.

But stay for what? As deputy, future sheriff, or more? Still, there was that pain in his eyes that she didn't place as fear of losing a deputy, and he had _admitted he wanted her to stay._ If that were indeed the case, knowing how much it had taken out of him to get that much said, all she could faintly manage was, "You gotta pen?"


	7. Chapter 7

**BOOK POST-AON MISSING SCENE**

**Chapter 7**

_**A/N Okay, this one just itched to be written after the previous AON MS. In Divorce Horse, Walt basically tells Cady his relationship with Vic is none of her business. Here, he sets it all straight. This more or less jives with DB, it does **__**not**__** jive with Ch 5 MS, written just before DB came out (DB answered some of the questions) so be forewarned. I am not going to rewrite Ch 5 because, goshdarnit, that conversation should have taken place sooner than DB! WARNING: ST/AON/DB spoilers. **_

**Post-AON**

**Walt's Conversation with Cady**

"So how's the mom business?" Walt asked. He sat in a chair between Cady and Lola. His bandages and stitches were chafing and itching respectively, but about six hours of sleep with Vic in his arms had done much to improve his mood, and more importantly, attention span. He had left her still sleeping, because her promises to utilize certain of his body parts had been honored enthusiastically and he had done her the dignity not to fall asleep until after both of them had been thoroughly gratified. She still bore blue smudges under her eyes, and he wondered if Bidarte troubled her sleep.

She looked more exhausted than he, and he was glad he could let her sleep naturally without any distractions from him or her family this evening. He had managed to secure _that_ by pocketing her charged phone, and leaving her a note to call him from the hotel phone when she was finally awake. He hoped to take her out for a nice late dinner at a restaurant which might still be open on New Year's Day night.

Lola lay asleep in the clear bassinet after some sporadic nursing and a change, the first accomplished while he discreetly looked out the window, the second which he had managed himself, with a little coaching from the new mom.

"The first diaper experience for me in…a lot of years, but hopefully one of many to come!" he said proudly, his skills not having diminished too badly after almost thirty years.

"She's wonderful, Dad. Worth all the months carrying her, worth all the delivery worry and worth protecting with my life. Everything you've said."

He grinned. "Pretty soon you'll understand how I feel."

"Probably already."

"Hey. Um, look punk, I need to tell you something. I probably should have talked to you about this last summer, when you were out visiting and I told you that anything between Vic and me was none of your business."

"Talked to me about what?" Her voice had changed, sharper.

"About Vic and me. We've…we've been seeing each other a couple of years, now. Not often at first, but a lot more recently."

"Seeing…"

He couldn't really call it dating. They didn't do much of that, but it was way more than having sex together. It was a tough thing to define to his daughter. They were basically together almost all the time. Vic would occasionally spend nights at her house on Kisling when he was out of town or had meetings, and she did attend seminars, trainings, and qualifying in firearms to stay current, but otherwise, because they typically worked together days, they were probably together than most married couples.

"I guess these days you'd say we're in an exclusive relationship?"

Cady looked almost amused. "Okay…"

"And, I don't know if Vic told you about her injury…"

"She told me she was stabbed by an assassin, and Henry told me she saved your life."

"There's a little more to it than that…"

"I figured _that_ much! It must be a _great_ story!"

"More like, a…painful one. She was carrying our baby at the time."

"Oh, no." Shocked silence.

He struggled to fill it.

"And she can't have more babies because she was hurt inside, so she's really down. I think it was really hard for her to be here for Lola's birth, she would have been about seven months along now with…_our_ baby, and everything just has to remind her of it. I want to be there for her, but…I don't know how to be."

"Oh, no," she said again, sadder, and asked, "Down, you mean, like depressed?"

He shrugged. "Yeah."

"Poor Vic."

He wanted to say he was down, too, but he didn't. He knew what Vic had suffered was a thousand times worse than what he felt now.

"Yeah." He tried to speak past the lump in his throat. "I just thought you should know. But…before she got hurt, we….skirted around maybe getting married someday. It just hasn't come up again since then."

"Hearth and home?"

He started. Those had been Vic's exact words near the beginning of their relationship, that _she didn't need hearth and home, she just liked being around him._

"I would have gone there a long time ago. She chose the path we've been on so far."

"I know you would have, because I know how you feel about relationships. Henry says you shake hands with a woman and offer to be true to her for the rest of her life, but you also know Vic doesn't do anything she doesn't want to do. So, Romeo, you going to ask her, now?"

"I…we'll see. Yeah, Henry said that way back in Viet Nam. A lifetime ago. He said it about your mother."

"See, he was right!"

"Yep."

Cady shrugged. "Vic makes you happy."

"Yep."

"You make _her_ happy."

"She says I do." He said it with less conviction. "I know I'm not there for her sometimes, like I wasn't there for you and your mom. She's upset I'm all torn up today, thinks it was because I didn't have her come with me when I went after that hit man and the kidnappers."

"Why didn't you? Take her?"

He jerked his head. "It just—happened—and she wasn't with me at the time. She's not really officially released back to duty, yet. She just showed up in Gillette to help out on the missing women case. I did have Henry with me most of the time. Anyway, she told me…Cady, whether she _says _it or not, she's still _grieving_."

"Did she help out?"

"She did."

"You think she's got…issues which would impair her judgment?"

"Well…I don't know. She doesn't know I know about the baby. I _know_ she's still grieving, moody and cracking inappropriate jokes, and I _want_ to tell her, but it just hasn't been the right time."

"Then tell her when it's the right time, tell her everything you've told me and _ask_ her, for gosh sakes! If you both are happy, then you should stay together. I hope you'll be as happy as Michael and me. In time, if both decide you want children, you could adopt a few together?"

He heard his own words in his ears, "_You _could adopt." He had taken himself totally out of the _hearth and home_ equation in that stupid statement. There were days his mouth should stay home or stay zipped. Vic had never heard him say the truth, which was, "I want you to be happy, and it would make me happy if we could maybe adopt someday."

There had been the case of the three women preoccupying him at the time. These days there _always_ seemed to be a case, and _never_ the right time…

"Yep," was all he said, solemnly, and he knew in his heart he had failed Vic yet again.

"Dad?" Her inquiry roused him from sinking into the deep-think he was prone to these days.

"Yep?"

"Stop overthinking it! I can see you're doing that! Tell her all that. Ask her the big question. That may be what she needs from you right now. Or, soon, anyway."

He breathed out quick through his nose. "Who made you so wise?"

"I'm not. I just know what I would like someone to do for me, if I were still carrying all that baggage around."

"Okay, then."

"Just _ask_ her."

Lola began to fuss, and Walt stood to retrieve his first and maybe only grandchild from the bassinet.

"Lo, lo, Lo-oh-la…" he sang softly, and he swore as he picked her up, a tiny smile curved her lips.


	8. Chapter 8

**Missing Scene**

**Chapter 8**

**BEYOND BOOK: Dry Bones **

**Call to Vic…**

_**A/N Of **__**course**__** this didn't happen, but it **__**could**__** have…Or, damnit, it **__**should **__**have! Warning: spoilers from ST on…this could also fit in another of my theme anthologies…**_

The auction was over. Jen was saved, Omar the unassuming hero, and justice for Danny had been done. More importantly, Cady now had job and life options. The world seemed to have temporarily righted, his head had cleared. With new clarity he felt a longing for Vic, struggling over two losses practically one of top of the other, and trying to juggle it all without him because of the complexities of the Jen dog and pony, er, _dinosaur_ show…

Walt found he desperately wanted to _talk_ to Vic, even for a little while. There had been no good time before she left to talk about _them_…he had tentatively touched upon the baby issue that night on Jen's crate, and a little the next day, and after that, it had all been about Michael and the implications of his sudden death.

After his discussion with Cady about Vic just after Lola's birth, he had felt the need to say all those things he had not said yet, and he still had not found the right time. At least he had told Vic about the baby, just not the rest of everything he wanted to say but he constantly lost focus in her presence. Damn, but she distracted him, witness disrobing on Jen's skull…How could he be expected to think using anything remotely near the North Pole at a time like _that_? The southern regions had taken over, they'd barely begun discussing the baby later, and by then Sancho had been banging on the doors.

The next morning, it had been cursory about the baby, and then off to pick up Cady and Lola, before all hell had broken loose.

It was midnight in Philly, now. Vic was staying with Cady in her loft, presumably to help with Lola and with the final arrangements for Michael. _Like a rock. A pissed rock, _Cady had said. Well, she might be pissed if he called at midnight, but he would call her cell and take his punishment if so.

"What fresh hell is this?" came her voice with her signature voicemail announcement, and he would have left a message, but amazingly her real, but _Pissed Rock_ voice followed.

"Do you know what time it is?" she asked, yawning over the phone.

"Yep."

"That's all I get for waking up?"

"I miss you."

"Okay, that's better. So spill, how injured are you?"

"Not. Very. Omar took a GSW and is on crutches."

"Oh, not _very_." He understood if she didn't believe him. He had to admit, it was pretty unusual for him to go unscathed when he was in pursuit of a suspect.

"No, really."

"Not torn apart like January?"

"Nope."

"Good. Is the dick still working?"

He cleared his throat. "Which, um, dick are you referring to, the one in South Dakota?"

"Haha, very funny, no, the one that took me to the Mother Ship in a close encounter on Jen's crate."

"Ah. That one is fine."

"Is it coming to Philly?"

"It might. Any leads?"

"You know they wouldn't tell any of us if they did. They've clammed up. All I see is a cold case going Arctic…"

"Some of them _owe_ me for the Toy Diaz matter…I might at least get to see the files, see what they've come up with."

"Counting on it."

"I can be out tomorrow. Oh, and in January, after Lola was born…I told Cady about us."

"I know. She told me. We've had time to talk…and talk about Michael, too."

"Oh. Okay."

"It isn't okay, but we're both working on it. They released his body to the funeral home, today." Thebody was Michael, Cady's husband, his son-in-law and Vic's brother.

"I stand corrected. Are _you_ okay? I…I'm not."

"You're _not_?"

He could hear the fear in her voice, probably because he had never told her anything like that, before, and it felt like he was dead wood, unloading on her at a time like this. She didn't need that from him, she needed reassurance. He should wait until he got there.

He struggled. "No. I need you."

"Well, don't tell _anyone_ this, especially anyone in Philly, but I fucking need you, too."

"What are we going to do, Vic?"

"Gee, that's kind of a broad question, Sheriff…"

She always called him _Sheriff_ when her sarcastic meter was working overtime.

"About us."

"Well…I would say that depends on what happens in this investigation, whether Bidarte was behind it, whether we both live through taking him down, and about ninety other things."

"Sounds like a longshot."

"_We've_ always been a longshot, Walt. You're a public figure, role model and pillar of the community who was married to a staunch Methodist for almost thirty years, now cavorting with a recently-divorced female employee half your age…"

"Shut up, Vic."

"Truth."

"I want to get married. That will shut up half the critics."

"Oh, yeah, so I force you into…"

"Shut up, Vic."

"Why are you doing this, Walt? Why tonight?"

"Because Omar was the hero in this case, and Henry offered to _off_ Bidarte for me. These recent cases have just consumed me, and I haven't been there for my friends or…you, my woman, lately."

"Fuck! _Your woman_?"

It was time to pack his mouth and send it home again. He tried to regroup, instead.

"I never know what to call you. You are not just my deputy, you are so much more, you are…" He struggled, searching. "I'm not sure what would have happened if you hadn't made it after Bidarte hurt you. If anyone had asked then, I might not have known what to say, but right now, it feels like you are my _life_."

Silence. More silence. Then the smart mouth took over.

"Would have had to look for a new fucking sheriff–in-training to train for sure," she said faintly.

"Why did you try and make me think the baby wasn't mine?" He couldn't help it, the question just popped out.

Silence again. It could be his friend, or it could be his deadliest enemy. He wasn't sure which it was this time.

Finally he could hear her taking a deep breath, "Easier than falling apart again in front of you, I guess?" It was all she seemed to be able to muster.

He tried again, summoned that which he never had, courage of the word. "Will you marry me, Victoria Moretti?"

A third silence. She cleared her throat. "I'm not just a convenient fuck so that you can retire after you win the next election. You _do _know that, don't you?"

"I do. If you don't want to be sheriff, if you want to stay home and _we_ raise a houseful of kids who need homes, I'll retire. I'm okay with that. I will be happy with you, whatever you're doing as long as you're doing it with me."

The silence filled up the line again, using her minutes, but more, tearing him apart. He wondered if Cady's advice had been marred by her own extreme happiness at the time of Lola's birth, and whether he and Vic were just too broken to even try.

Then, very faintly from Philly, came the exclamation, "Fuck me! You're really proposing on the _phone_?"

"I was going to ask you the morning after Cady arrived, but by that time you were smoking and grieving over Michael, and you both were making arrangements to go back, as was only right."

"Aw, Walt."

"I want to do this in a much more celebratory fashion, I just don't want to wait any more to begin a future with you. It's hell here without you."

He could hear the sarcasm creep back. "You just miss my duty rosters."

"I miss _you."_

"Well, keep him warm in your pants. When are you coming in, tomorrow?"

I'm not just talking about what's in my pants. It seems like you're always at qualifying shoots, officer trainings or seminars. It seems like we never have time to just _be_."

"We have precious little," she confirmed. "So it is with the skeleton crew holding the county together. You could fix that."

"How?" he was curious. They had never discussed that.

"Lean on the county to hire more deputies. The turnover's high because pay is abominable and the work is shit. Make people want to stay, get promoted, higher pay, and we'll have a little time to ourselves."

"You can do that when you're sheriff," he observed. "You can charm them with your artistic language skills."

He could hear her wince over the phone, despite the distance. "Not a sure thing, better if the current sheriff is sufficiently motivated _before_ then to have time with his _woman_."

"The current sheriff has asked you to marry him, and you haven't replied."

Silence again. The air grew thick with expectation and with fear. The lump in his throat grew. He didn't know what he would do if she refused him. He was afraid they might not be able to comfortably step back into the old relationship.

Then, "I won't be called Grandma."

"Auntie Vic, as is true and correct."

"I want to fly in Omar's helicopter and go on an adventure with the boys."

"Be my guest. I'll stay home on that one, if you don't mind."

"Stupid ankle," she groused.

"Is it better?"

"It won't matter if I'm sitting on you, will it, hmmm?"

He couldn't hold back a chuckle at that. "Nope."

"Did Omar really buy the dinosaur?"

"He did, but you are deflecting and redirecting, Deputy."

He only called her Deputy when he was serious.

"Would I be Vic Longmire or Vic Moretti?"

"I'll just call you Vic. You decide whatever you want to be called, and that will be fine with me."

"We'd live together?"

"Of course."

"What if I want kids? Where will we put them?"

"I have lots of land. We probably have enough room for a stable-ful of kids. Each kid could have maybe a hundred acres or so to graze on…"

"I was thinking more like where to put them in the dinky cabin…"

"We'll build on if that's the case. Henry will loan me one of his mobile homes again in the interim if we need it. That's a non-issue."

"Can I give you my answer after you get here?"

"Nope, or I won't sleep and you know how I am then."

"You follow the case to the end."

"Yep."

"What would you think of adopting an Indian kid or two?"

His heart swelled a little. "I think that would be great. I suspect Henry would be on board with something like that, and offer to be our cultural advisor."

"Can I redecorate? You saw how I did my house."

"You bet. The cabin's been waiting forever for your touch."

"So you're asking for _our_ forever?"

"Yep."

"Okay, yep."

"What yep? I've lost count of the yeps."

"Yep to your question—but I won't do fucking monograms on the towels."

He hadn't ever entertained the_ idea _of monogrammed towels.

"You mean, yep to being a wife?"

"That's a big 10-04, on that, Officer. Just no fucking monograms."

"I can do that. I am making a note of that right now in my duty notebook. _No fucking monograms._"

"All right then. Call me back when you book your flight."

"Sleep well."

"Sleep _well_? _After a proposal over the phone_?"

"Uh, well…_try. _I'll dream about you_._"

"Don't dream, just sleep. You're going to need it, _Sheriff_."

"I miss you, Vic."

"I miss you, too."

The phone went to dial tone.

He felt lighter than he had felt since long before Martha's death. With Vic at his side, he was going to build another future. Ominous wings of Bidarte, hired hit-men and a plethora of cases to come rushed up for a minute, but the clarity of his future persevered, and all he could see was Vic's face in his mind, as she flashed the tarnished gold eyes and elongated canine at him.

Despite her admonition, he might dream.


	9. Chapter 9

**Missing Scenes**

**Chapter 8—Part III**

_**A/N Well, this is another maybe I shouldn't…but another writer suggested maybe I should…I am truly not trying to second-guess next book, this scene just followed upon the heels of the last Missing Scene.**_

The call came in at almost 2 am Durant time.

"I can't do this. I won't make you choose between me and your grandchild."

A frisson of fear ran over him at her words. "Vic. You don't. You aren't."

The phone went dead, and he panicked.

The first person on his list seemed unsurprised, unruffled, and awake at 4 am Philly time.

"Walter?" asked Lena Moretti.

"Vic needs you," he said, trying to temper the edge in his voice.

"I'm here with Lola," she said. "I just got her back to sleep."

"There—"

"My home. I thought the girls could use some sleep tonight. It's been tough for all of us, but especially them."

"Vic isn't sleeping. She's—I don't know what. Beyond depressed."

"What makes you think that?"

"She said—" he bit his lip until it tasted metallic. "She said she wouldn't make me choose between her and Lola."

Lena now sounded confused. "Why would you have to?"

"She—she's grieving."

"Over Michael?"

"Over Michael, which I think has drawn her back to grieve over her baby. _Our_ baby. She was only a couple of months along. He was killed when she was hurt."

He heard the indrawn hiss of breath.

"A baby. So…that's why the drinking in Belize?"

"Part of it, yes. Can you get over there to her? She says she hears the baby crying in her dreams, but I think it may be Lola. I can call Cady…"

"When is your flight in?"

"3 pm. Omar's flying me to Denver at 700 hours."

"Don't call Cady. Lola will be fine with Victor. I'm on my way and will report after I have Vic with me. I'll buy her breakfast and we can watch the sunrise together."

His eyes shut for a moment in profound relief.

"Thank you, Lena."

"You going to make her do right by you?"

"I'm prepared to offer her hearth and home. She proposed to me only a few minutes before…before she was hurt. I…can suggest adopting children."

"I would think that's more than enough. It's Michael's killer I've thought she was obsessing over."

"We have a theory…same guy who killed our son killed _your_ son."

The voice changed. The charming, cultured tones transformed to honed steel.

"In that case, I have at least four cops, most detectives, who will assist you in any way possible. If you need additional help, well, I may have some available."

He did not want to discuss what _kind_ of additional help.

"Look, I don't want Vic in on this. I don't think she—or I—can be very objective."

"But you could find the man."

"Maybe."

"Find him, or if you need help, we can assist you here. I'm headed to Cady's place now." He heard her calling, presumably to Vic senior, and she came back to the phone.

"The men will watch Lola. I will watch my daughter."

"I love her, Lena."

"Of that, I have no doubt. Let's try and make her whole again."

"It's all I want."

That was a lie, he thought. He desperately wanted Bidarte's head on a plate, even more than Vic did, he was simply far more bound by the law than she. It would be tantamount to ending his career, but he was seriously thinking on it. Although Henry had offered, it was not Henry's job, it was his own, his right to confront and destroy Bidarte in any manner possible.

No more suicide investigations or dinosaurs to distract him from it…it was time to accede to Lena and locate Bidarte prior to devising a strategy sufficient to defeat him.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

**Missing Scene**

**from**

"**Death Without Company"**

_**Warning: MULTIPLE SPOILERS ALERT for "Death Without Company." **_

_**Walt has saved Sancho but been caught under ice. Henry has cut through with his tomahawk and pulled Walt out. With lungs full of water, Walt dreams about Mari Baroja, but it is not Mari kissing him, it is Vic doing CPR. Walt thanks Henry for saving him and Sancho thanks Walt, but as employer and mentor, what can Walt say to the savior who brought him back from Mari's arms? I was going to re-write this, because in the book, Walt and Vic do not interact until after Walt and Dog are all shot up and she yells at him, but I liked it better here, so, it fits as a missing scene. (Can't I rationalize?) It also allows the epilog to make more sense to me.**_

_**Just a few A/N items: I am back in town now for the foreseeable future, no more quick trips out of state to retrieve the contents of my mom's storage unit, no more vacations this year. I will be returning to work on Leaving Durant, Survival and my own characters. I worked Wednesday-today since returning to Denver Tuesday evening, and that work stuff really gets in the way of my writing, haha!**_

_**Of course this is Longmire, and I Own Nothing. I wore that sobriquet on my name badge all during Longmire Days, just in case…**_

The trip up from the basement seemed to take forever, fighting against gravity, as he managed the stairs with increasing effort. The previous night had taken a lot out of him. He was almost to the first-floor landing which turned and headed on up to the office, when his head tipped up and he saw those high-caliber eyes trained on him. They were tarnished gold equally locked and loaded as his sidearm which had earlier been lying across Lucian's chest.

Of course they were the eyes of his vision—well, a portion of his vision, the eyes of the female warrior on the horse, and those of Mari Baroja after they had somehow morphed. Right now, they were narrowed into cat-like gold slits, the lips pursed in obvious disapproval.

"So you fucking leave the hospital like all is la-ti-dah and have started stair marathons? Where are your meds?"

He thought silence might be the best tactic, here. He did not want to admit the meds lay in the wastebasket in his office, where he'd chucked them before changing his shirt. She filled his silence.

"Isaac reminded me to make you take your meds."

"I do. Have them." True, just in the office trash…

"When did you last take one?"

He could hardly admit he hadn't taken one, yet.

"What, the fuck, Walt? Do you mean _these_ meds?" She held up a bottle out of her pocket. "I get back from serving a summons, and _these _are in your _wastebasket_? Like, what happened last night was no big thing?" Her voice had risen proportionate to the drama of the situation.

"I'm okay," he said, trying to reassure her.

"Like _fuck_ you are! Isaac says you have walking pneumonia. That's serious stuff. You know, the puppet guy, Jim Henson poo-pooed that and ended up dying of it. No more Kermit. So I leave the response to the summons on your desk, and what do I find in your trash?"

"I know—" he began, only to be cut off.

"You know _shit_! I performed CPR last night—no membranes, no nothing, because your lungs were full of water. It seemed like you threw that up…but you also have, as I count it, a broken bone in your orbit, numerous contusions, and your eye is not in the best of shape. And you were out of the hospital in what…about an hour?"

He shrugged. He couldn't dispute the accuracy of her statements.

"So. You take one of these. Now."

"Water, Vic."

"Upstairs. I'll get you water. _No more fucking winter swimming_, Walt."

It was little more than what Ruby had said, except for the expletive.

"No."

Her face was mutinous. The tarnished gold blazoned full bore and flashing.

"Vic…about last night…" He watched her. He was beginning to think he could read her. It was not always a comforting thought. She almost looked like she was going to cry.

He thought about the water, his dream vision, Henry's tomahawk and strength pulling him out, and Vic cradling his head in her lap. He remembered the warm salt water falling on his face as though she were administering comfort from heaven.

She threw him a look to stop prevaricating. He knew the look, had seen it a hundred times. Somehow, the Cheyenne Nation's simple thank you, similar to what he had managed for Sancho a few minutes before, did not seem enough.

"Vic…" He saw her mouth go white. Abandoning any semblance of thought, he pulled the prickly deputy into his arms, something he had wanted to do for so long…since he had first stood in front of her double-wide with the wind trying to flick away their words to Nebraska…

"It's okay. I'll be okay."

And then he could feel a new wave of warm salt water dampening the front of the shirt he had donned from the Reading Room shelves.

"I owe you and I have no idea how I can ever return the favor."

"Not a favor, just don't fucking get hurt again," she grated out into his shirt, and he thought he felt her mouth against his chest working again after she said it.

"I'll try not to." But it was not a promise, as in one he knew he shouldn't make and likely couldn't keep.

There was a muffled noise from below, Henry finally coming up behind him on the stairs. He idly wondered what Henry and Sancho had conspired about, before realizing he was holding his deputy in a very unprofessional manner in a very public place.

"I will try to do better." There. He could say that to her.

She took a deep, snuffling breath and pulled away. "Like I fucking believe that," she whispered, folding his hand around the meds, as she bounded out the door, away from the station.

He let his breath out, long and painful. Isaac was not kidding about shortness of breath. He really did have some issues in his lungs. He looked at the next obstacle of stairs and resolved to take one of the meds with a Broncos mug full of water before he accomplished anything else.

"Now what?" asked Henry.

"I don't know. I guess I should have thanked her," he said.

Henry's brows rose. "I meant about our next venture into the snow looking for your wounded suspect, a Mac truck and mobile home. Little things like that."

"Oh," he said, because he was still channeling more bottle rockets and tears on his chest at the moment than any of the things Henry had mentioned. "We get a few things together and go."

Despite implementing their plans, his shirt stayed damp for what seemed like a long time, and he found himself wondering at the foul but luscious mouth, and whether it would take him all the way to heaven to kiss her.


End file.
